Septenary
by Azolean
Summary: A serial killer is stalking the streets of London leaving a trail of bodies meant to gain the attention of certain individuals. Can Holmes and Lestrade prevent their loved ones from becoming the next victims?/M Rating is for violence and gore. UPDATES AND MISSING CHAPTERS COMING IN MARCH 2013!
1. Prologue: July 1880

_**A/N: **Yep, here we go again. I've got another massive story. And this was my 2012 **NaNoWriMo** project. This thing started as a little 50-75k project and has turned into more than twice that. _

_Here is where I offer my most sincere apologies to any and all reading this. I thank you very much for taking the time to read this. However, it has taken far longer thanks to some RL issues that have taken priority the last few months. Now, as I am finally getting a real start on the new year I hope to dedicate some serious time to working on this. _

_This project has taken on a life of its own and will likely wind up being one of my first two published works. The series I have now dubbed **Amelioration** (Parts I-V) will be the first. It is currently being revamped. When I return to this in the next few weeks (early March), there will be new chapters added that were not a part of the original work. They include interludes from the characters' pasts that will help enlighten us all to how they became what they did in these stories. _

_I hope I have not disappointed anyone too greatly with the delay. More than anything, I hope what I will be adding in the weeks to come will make up for the delay. Thanks again to everyone reading. _

* * *

**Prologue: July 1880**

Holmes dragged his weary feet back up the stairs to his pathetic excuse for a room on Montague. He vaguely wondered that these mildewing walls and rotting floors had not collapsed yet. Tonight he could not care less if the whole building collapsed with himself and his demonic landlady included, so long as he was allowed to sleep through the event. It had been yet another long and unfulfilling case interspersed with work and his ongoing studies. The combination of activities had left him no time for personal contemplation or mental exercise he used to keep him going when taxed so physically. Were it not for his desperate need for money, he would never have even considered such a simple, yet time-consuming case.

However, as he now entered the dilapidated room he presently called home, he wasted no time in making himself comfortable. He never stopped thinking that one day he would find something bigger and better. But, for now, this disgusting reminder of his lack of clientele and funding was enough to motivate him into accepting anything. Every once in a while he entertained the idea that one day he would take his cases to a more public venue. Perhaps he would even establish himself enough to approach those bungling idiots Scotland Yard called inspectors.

Now divested of his outer wear and into a comfortably shabby dressing gown, Holmes approached the one window this room possessed. The stifling early July air heavy with the scent of decay all around him did little to settle his already exhausted thoughts. Lighting his pipe now containing the last of his tobacco stash, he spared a brief thought for the beautiful idea of watching this little piece of misery burn. Of course, just as quickly the crushed that idea thoroughly. It would not do for a man attempting to uphold the law and bring criminals to justice to have a secret life of crime started in his own home, such as it was. Though, he had to admit, the idea had merit.

Snorting at his own ridiculous thoughts, he finally curled into the mouldering chair beside his window hoping to at least sleep for a few hours before sunrise. His last thoughts before drifting off into slumber were the return of his elder brother's admonishments that he would never make anything of himself in this ridiculous excuse for a profession. As his dark brows furrowed briefly in defiance of that memory, he could not help a wordless feeling of vague concern that perhaps his brother was right.

~o~o~o~

Lestrade was no rookie when it came to gruesome sights. In his relatively short career as an inspector with Scotland Yard he had seen many of the various forms of cruelty human beings could inflict on one another. Though he was not inured to these sights, each one had a way of leaving a mark on his soul that only further disheartened him. Times like this, however, left him wondering if there really was any hope for humanity. In the early July heat, even at this time of night, he found himself restraining the urge to gag. Turning away from the horrific scene of the mutilated body of some unloved, abandoned street urchin, he briefly wished to just go home and wrap his arms around his own children and remind himself that there still was good in the world; even if only in his own home and heart.

Taking out his little notebook, he jotted down his observations of the scene with little hope and even less enthusiasm. He knew, deep inside, he had been handed this case to prove a point. He was not the most successful Yarder, nor even very high in the chain. He was just another overworked representative of law enforcement. A case such as this was bound to come along sooner or later. And the fact that it was such a meaningless waste of time made it all the worse in his mind. He did not doubt for one moment that the killer would go free. He would never catch the man, unless it was in the act of mutilating one of these children.

This was the third such scene in a month. At least once a week the body of some unwanted little brat was found in an alley or abandoned shack with all his appendages cut off and then carefully sewn back on. From the absolute lack of blood, the killings had not taken place where the body was found. It was easy enough to guess that the child had been awake through at least some of the mutilation. It was a brutal job of hacking away at the digits with some object that was likely blunted from long use. Then, the sewing back on of the smaller and larger parts, obviously took place after the child was dead.

Lestrade could not decide what was worse. The idea that the child had been alive for the initial act, or the fact that they bothered to take the time to sew the child back together. He could not fathom the kind of mind that would do such a thing. It was not surprising that they had all been children. Children on these dark streets were rarely missed. Most of them had no families to miss them. It made sense from the perspective that the killer would have plenty of time to complete his gruesome project without anyone raising a cry in search of a child. Though, the same could be said of most of the adults that wandered these streets as well.

Having gathered all he needed from this miserable, filthy little alley, he put away his notebook and turned away. He barely spared a thought for the rest. Others would be taking care of the cleanup and disposal. This was not the real crime scene. No one had yet figured out where that was. Lestrade could not help wondering if this would go on indefinitely. It would not be the first time a killer had stalked the less-fortunate of these city streets. Nor would it be the first time a killer with such a twisted mind wound up disappearing back into the fog from which they had come; their crimes remembered only on paper and in the minds of those unfortunate enough to have to investigate that inevitable lack of evidence.

Not for the first time, Lestrade wondered why it was he did this to himself. He wondered what had become of that conviction that he could make a difference. Either alone or with others, he had always wanted to bring justice to those who deserved it. As he turned his feet back in the direction of Scotland Yard, he wondered once more what held him to his course. Nights like these used to inspire his convictions. He sighed heavily at these doubts, and wondered if there was any point to any of this.

~o~o~o~

At the other end of the city in yet another trash-strewn alley a child of not much more than eleven years sat huddled in a corner. He was of no particular importance; just another nameless, faceless little boy with nowhere to go and no one to care for him. Despite the balmy night air, he sat shivering in his little shadowy nook between two buildings. It had been weeks since he'd been able to sleep. There was a darkness prowling the alleys of London looking for him. It stalked the night coming for those unwary enough to sleep too soundly.

Three weeks the other kids had been whispering about it in the shadows. A tall man, well-dressed with a kind face and gentle hand would make little children disappear. When they were again found, it was a sight that set every child screaming into a waking nightmare; and not a few adults as well. He would appear from the very shadows that had sheltered and protected them from the eyes of the adults who would hurt them and leave them broken. Their once safe-haven amongst the shadows of the alleys had come alive and turned against them.

Wiggins had heard the screams in the next alley over just two nights ago. He had heard the man take Lucas. But, as with all the others, Lucas had been hidden too far away and too well for anyone to reach him in time. No one ever saw the man well enough to tell him or any others what he looked like. So every tall, thin man that walked these alleys was suspect. And all they could do was pray that running fast enough would keep them alive.

Burying his head in his knees, Wiggins wondered once more at the unfairness of it all. It was hard enough trying to pick the occasional pocket or team up with a beggar for a day just to have something to eat. He wasn't even old enough to find real work. He hadn't been old enough to fend for himself when he parents had been murdered. If Lucas had not taught him how things were done and how to stay safe and unseen in these shadows, he would not have survived the first winter. Now Wiggins was a veteran, and his adopted brother was dead.

Wiggins resisted the urge to give in to those tears that burned unshed behind his tightly closed eyelids. Instead, they became a slowly burning ember in his gut. The hollow feeling of having not eaten disappeared completely as he considered how even the safety of the shadows had turned against him. It just wasn't right. Perhaps he could not make it right, being that he was no more than a kid himself. But it still did not mean he had to accept it helplessly, either. He was too exhausted to even think of what he could do beyond staying alive through one more terror-filled night.

Maybe some day he would be big enough to make a difference. Maybe some day he and the others would not have to live this way. Maybe some day...

Wiggins gave a humorless bark laugh into the knobby balls of his knees. No, he was a nobody. He never would be anybody. Nobody cared about him or the other children that had survived so many years on these cold, dark streets. And nobody _would _care. They were throwaways in a heartless world of adults where even other adults starved and died in their helplessness. What could a single child do on his own?

Feeling himself dozing off, Wiggins jerked himself back awake with a gasp. For one terror-filled moment he listened to every rat moving in the trash in the alley wondering if it was footsteps. Would he be next? How many more would die before it was his turn? The nameless, faceless children that he saw each and every day whispered more and more fearfully that they had heard other screams, longer screams. The screams of the dying children as they were hacked and cut apart. One even claimed to have heard the man singing a lullaby while the screams mixed into his chorus.

His arms wrapped tightly around his legs, Wiggins listened to the pounding of his heart as the night dragged on forever.

~o~o~o~

"Get your hands off me you wretched little—oof!" A stout, little foot planted just below his ribcage cut off whatever he was about to say.

Holmes could not believe this was happening. Even as the filthy rag was stuffed into his mouth serving as a gag that made his stomach turn unpleasantly, he felt his arms being wrenched up behind him in a most painful manner. Meanwhile, a dozen or so other hands and bodies forced his legs to stillness as they began to tie him up with whatever they had available. Fight as he would, there was no way he could escape his present circumstances without inflicting injury on the lads. He had not come here in search of a fight or to be picked clean. He had hoped that his presence as a gentlemen would establish himself above the other ruffians of these alleys.

He had thought wrong.

The moment he had approached one of the filthy little urchins with a kind word and the offer of a small amount of coin he had been overwhelmed. Out of every shadow, window, nook, and cranny had come a screaming mob of children. The terror in their eyes even as they took him down to roll around in the muck of the alley had been obvious to him. He could not help admiring their courage. Now bound and gagged and thoroughly helpless, Holmes allowed himself to be picked clean hoping the beating to follow would at least not leave him in a position to require the services of a doctor, as he could not afford one at this time.

"That's enough!"

Holmes' gray eyes immediately sought out this authoritative voice. It had been the same voice he'd heard only moments before the ragged little bunch of brats had attacked him. To his surprise, the lad could not have been more than eleven or twelve in Holmes' estimation. But he carried an authority that spoke of experience in these dark quarters. A harshness behind those dark eyes and face twisted in fury told a tale of long days spent on these streets, and even longer nights.

"Return his stuff!" the boy barked, never breaking eye contact. "We'll not take from an evil murderer."

"But—"

"I said put it back!"

To Holmes' surprise, the children did as they were told. The boy nodded as if satisfied before barking further orders.

"Al, go find Lix and tell him we got one. Neil, go find a constable. The rest of you scatter. We'll regroup in the second location. Those who don't know, pick a partner. Now go!"

By this point Holmes' previous admiration for the collective group taking down what they obviously thought was the murderer Holmes had been hoping to catch was multiplied exponentially. These children obeyed the orders of their declared leader even as he faced down the one thing that could spark terror behind those hardened eyes. And, even in his terror, the boy maintained control and kept his head as he stared back into Holmes' gray eyes.

Once alone, the boy squatted down just far enough to be beyond reach. Even as his arms and legs trembled with barely contained fear, the boy refused to break eye contact.

"We're not helpless anymore," the boy said calmly with a voice possessed of iron. "We will not wait for you to hunt us down one by one. Now it's our turn."

For one, brief moment Holmes' eyes widened as he considered the implications of that statement and the obvious threat behind it. Holding the boy's eyes with his own, he tried to speak around the gag. Thankfully, the expected knife that would slit his throat never materialized. Instead, the boy crouched where he was, waiting for the sound of approaching footsteps. By this point, Holmes was downright unnerved. It was bad enough he'd been taken down by a bunch of children, but now he would be arrested as a suspected murderer. And, when the boy stared him down, knowing he could be the one brutally mutilating those children, he refused to back down with his cold stare.

Holmes was relieved to hear the coming footsteps of a larger person. He had begun to wonder what would happen if the constable turned out to be some older, more experienced leader. However, hearing these footsteps as well, the boy rose to his full height. Clenching his fists, he glared down at Holmes as if he were the filthiest piece of muck in the whole alley.

"You tell them."

And, with that, the lad was gone. He ran down the opposite end of the alley leaving Holmes to face a bemused constable by himself. As the constable's bemusement turned into a wicked glare, Holmes only barely managed to refrain from pounding his head on the pavement.

This was so not going to end well.

~o~o~o~

"What is all this bloody ruckus?" Lestrade shouted as he stormed down the corridor of the cells. "What is he on about?"

"Sorry, sir," one of the younger constables present stammered quickly. "He's demanding to see the Inspector in charge of the—the murders of—of those...kids."

"You mean those little brats I—"

"Children, Inspector!" a new voice demanded his attention through the little barred grate at the top of the door. "They are children. Despite what you may think, they deserve your respect as human beings, if nothing else."

"And just who are you?" Lestrade asked, wondering what kind of man would speak with such arrogance from within a gaol.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, a private consulting detective."

Lestrade snorted. _Rather pretentious, _he thought to himself.

Crossing his arms in an unconsciously defensive gesture, Lestrade dismissed the other constables. "And just what is it you want, Mr. Holmes? I've been told you were arrested on the suspicion of attempting to take another victim."

"That was an unfortunate misunderstanding," Holmes replied coldly. "I am, in fact, attempting to locate the murderer; as you lot seem entirely out of your depth on this case."

Lestrade's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. _Arrogant, too. _

"By the looks of things, I would say it is _you _who are out of your depth, Mr. Holmes. As I understand it, that was the case when Constable Williams found you in that alley. Or would you like to tell me that was a misunderstanding as well?"

Holmes snorted. "That is irrelevant to the situation. I am offering my services to assist you in this case."

Lestrade barked a laugh. _He's mad!_

"I'm to just let you out and then employ your services as a 'private consulting detective'—whatever that may be—when I already have you here on a suspicion of murder?"

"Come now, Inspector. We both know there is no evidence—"

"No evidence, against this accusation, you mean."

Holmes clenched his teeth as the little man on the opposite side of the door trying to reign in his impatience. "Inspector—"

"That's enough, Mr. Holmes. I don't have time for these. These little rats have wasted enough of my time. I have more important—"

"Do you hug your children when you go home at night, Inspector?"

Lestrade blinked in surprise.

"Do you tell yourself better those children than your own daughter, perhaps? Is that how you sleep at night?"

"How dare you presume—"

"I presume _nothing, _Inspector Lestrade. I _know._"

Lestrade was about to turn his back and walk away, perfectly satisfied to find whatever evidence he needed at this point to pin those murders on this man. Something in those gray eyes boring into his own spoke of sincerity, however. There was a feverish passion behind those eyes. A desire to prove himself. Lestrade felt as if he were looking into a mirror of a younger version of himself. This man sincerely believed in what he was doing, what he was saying. There was a coldly calculating cunning behind those eyes that glittered with a desire to bring justice to those others thought beneath their notice.

As if a memory from another life, Lestrade could almost remember what that felt like.

Taking himself in hand, Lestrade cocked his head questioningly as those eyes continued to bore into his very soul.

"Just who are you, Mr. Holmes? And what is your interest in this case?"

"As I said, I am a private consulting detective. I offer my services to solve crimes and petty problems when asked by those in need. In answer to your question of the case: Have you yet noticed that the murderer possesses little or no knowledge of human anatomy while very deft and neat with a needle?"

Lestrade's eyes narrowed dangerously. "And just how would you know that?"

"Your last victim was found in the East End. I was there that night when you were taking your little notes, completely missing every relevant point."

"You're not making_ your _case any less suspicious, Mr. Holmes. What credentials have you?"

Holmes waved a hand dismissively as he stepped back from the door. "I have neither the time nor the patience for this, Inspector. If you wish to establish my whereabouts on the night the actual murder took place—which was Tuesday of last week, by the way, in a warehouse near the Thames, possibly in the Wapping area, though I would have need of a closer view of the body to be certain—inquire with a Mycroft Holmes. I was at the Diogenes Club, with my elder brother and several witnesses."

The fact that he had been all but begging a meal off his elder brother was not something the little inspector needed to know.

"I'll await your return to release me. We can speak more of these matters when you have come to the inevitable conclusion that my services would be of inestimable value to you."

Lestrade humped in disbelief. Whoever this young man was, he could already tell he was going to be a bloody nuisance, if nothing else. Though he was not familiar with the name Holmes, something told him he soon would be, much to his displeasure.

~o~o~o~

Three days later Holmes found himself once more prowling the alleys of London. His first encounter with the official forces of the law within this city had not gone well. The insufferable little inspector had spurned his offers of assistance. He still did not know what Mycroft had told the man, but he could easily deduce it was not what either of them wanted to hear. Instead of being suitably impressed, the little inspector had treated him as little more than a common criminal before expelling him from the Yard.

"Parlor tricks,"Lestrade had sneered at Holmes' display of his talents. "You are a trickster and a troublemaker, and I'll have no more of you or your tricks. If I find you are interfering in my investigation, I will have you locked down with your brother's blessing."

Holmes had ground his teeth until he was sure they would crack. Summoning his remaining dignity, despite his disheveled and disreputable appearance, he calmly took himself back to his depressing little abode on Montague. For a time he simply paced like a panther ready to leap upon anything that moved. After wasting some time plotting his petty revenge against his brother, he had finally settled on a plan.

Now, he was on the hunt again. This time, he was much more wary. Where he saw one child, he could hear others. No longer did these children give the appearance of being alone in his eyes. Now he knew what to look and listen for in the shadows. It was clever, bold, and courageous. And he knew beyond a doubt, would serve them in good stead in their hard years to come. But, for now, he only wished to avoid bloodshed, as he had no doubt that is what this little display of defiance on their part would eventually escalate. Sooner or later many of them would be hurt. And, if not them, it was only a matter of time before those cold, dark eyes decided to take things a step further.

"I am unarmed," Holmes called out, sensing movement behind him.

Raising his hands above his shoulders so as to be easily visible in the dim light of the little alley, Holmes slowly turned around. He was pleased to see those dark eyes once more. Cold and hard as they now were with the promise of dire consequences, they sparked with wary intelligence.

"I warned you."

"I am looking for you."

Despite the flicker of fear behind those eyes, he never wavered. "I told you we would not be hunted like dogs anymore."

"I am hunting, though you were not my target. You are correct. There is someone out there hunting you and murdering you one by one. I am not that man."

"And why should we believe you?" he shot back, defiantly. "No one knows what he looks like. No one who has seen him has lived to tell the others."

Holmes nodded to this. "I came back. I am unarmed, and I wish only to speak, for now."

The boy crossed his arms as if waiting. He fairly radiated confidence and leadership, though he quite obviously quivered inside with fear. "Speak, then."

"Call out the others so that we may speak."

"No. And if you want to keep speaking, you will stay exactly where you are."

Holmes smiled briefly. The child was far from stupid. He could easily see why he had become their leader. He nodded slowly. "Very well, then. I acknowledge your position of leadership here, sir. And I have come to negotiate for your services. My name is Sherlock Holmes, a private consulting detective. I am, in fact, hunting the very same man who keeps you awake at night wondering which of you will be next."

Wiggins' eyes flashed dangerously for a moment as he thought he was being mocked. But as the gentleman continued to speak, something of sincerity came through. Wary though he was, Wiggins felt compelled to trust him, at least enough to listen. He had no desire for bloodshed. And, in his mind, the man had to mad to come back looking for them...unless he had other intentions, more along the lines of revenge.

"Call me Wiggins," he offered, stiffly. "What do you mean by services? We'll not be bought or sold like animals. We're our own protection now, so we don't need you."

Holmes smiled, sincerely pleased. "I had no intentions in that direction, Mr. Wiggins. But you have eyes and ears that reach far in this city. How do you think I was able to find you?"

Wiggins continued to eye him warily. A subtle hand gesture silenced the shifting Holmes could hear all around him. "What do you want?"

"Information, and the occasional errand. You will be paid for services rendered. And, in time, I hope to employ more of you. But, for now, the few of you gathered here will be enough."

"Why?"

"Beg pardon?"

"Why do you care? No one else has bothered to even notice us. No one cares if we're picked off one at a time until there are none of us left."

Holmes' brow furrowed as his expression darkened into something almost sinister. When Wiggins refused to show any signs of intimidation, he again acknowledged the boy's courage. Continuing to address him as an equal, he said, "I _do_ care. The man who has committed these murders is just that, a murderer. The value of your lives is no less than that of my own. I will find him and bring him to justice. With your help, we can take away the nightmare that keeps you children up in the night fearing the next shadow. It is true that others do not notice you. And it is _that_ which makes you so very useful to me. You can see and hear what others would whisper in those same shadows, never having noticed your presence. You know these streets as no others could hope.

"I offer you an advanced payment of—"

"No."

Holmes raised a questioning eyebrow as he withdrew his hands from his pocket.

"There will be no payment, yet, Mr. Holmes—if that really is your name. I have agreed to nothing."

"Of course you would wish to discuss this amongst yourselves," Holmes agreed. "Allow me to leave this alley unmolested and you may do so at your leisure. Should you decline my offer, I will still hunt the man responsible for these murders, and request that you pass my name along to the others. I will, of course, respect your desire to be left alone. However, if would choose to accept my offer, I will leave you my card with my address. Good day, Mr. Wiggins."

Wiggins eyed the card the man had left lying on the ground even as he kept a close eye on the retreating back. Not until he had crept to the mouth of the alley and seen the man strolling at a sedate pace further down the block did he return to stare at that little white square on the blackened ground. He had not yet signaled the others to come out. He spent several seconds wondering at how out of place that bright white little square seemed in this dismal place; just as the man himself had seemed so out of place, and yet...not.

Finally he signalled to the others to come out of their various hiding places as he retrieved the card. Wary as he was, he could not help feeling there was something there worth trusting.

~o~o~o~

Holmes smiled as he walked away from that alley. The boy had thus far performed admirably. He'd given a good account of himself and his position as leader. He would have to wait and see what would become of this possible alliance. For him, the uses were virtually limitless. Even with this limited income, there may be other things he could do. Children in their position would not complain for having a safe place to sleep or education or any number of other things as repayment for their services and incentive to continue their employment. He had no doubts Wiggins would seek him out soon enough.

Who needed infuriating little Yarders with a disregard for human life based on social status? Who needed an army when Holmes had all of London's most unnoticed eyes and ears at his fingertips?

Feeling the thrill of something in his veins singing of the potential for the future and the furthering of his career, Holmes as hard-pressed not to make a spectacle of himself. That tingling sensation of excitement for a hunt practically consumed him. Laughing briefly, but heartily, he swung his walking stick with abandon. The board was set, the chase was on, and he had no doubts he would emerge the victor. And to blazes with the official representatives of the law in this city. The city would be his, and the criminal elements would fear and respect him far more than some ferret-faced little inspector with beady dark eyes.

Inspector Lestrade would never know what hit him.


	2. Monday's Child Part I

**Monday's Child**

**Part One**

MONDAY'S CHILD IS FAIR OF FACE.

Holmes stared at the block letters cut from various periodicals and carefully pasted on the sheet of paper before him. It had all the feel of a threat, but he could not fathom the meaning. The envelope in which it had arrived had been utterly unremarkable, sold in almost any store quite cheaply. Even his name had been carefully pasted to the envelope using the same method to avoid detection through the use of any handwriting. He had to admire the creativity and the eye for detail that lead to such measures. But the cryptic message meant nothing to him, only managing to leave him both confused and frustrated.

This was how Watson found his partner and friend at the breakfast table that early-May morning. The beautiful weather and cheery sunlight had lead him to begging breakfast for himself and Emily from Mrs. Hudson so they would have the excuse of coming over to join Holmes. Lately, Holmes had been in an unusually cheerful mood over several goings on. Watson was in no doubt this could change as swiftly as the weather, and wished to take advantage of it while it lasted.

However, as he and Emily let themselves into the open sitting room door, he paused to reconsider what would have his friend glaring darkly while looking so thoroughly puzzled at the same time. Usually a puzzle would have Holmes' bounding around the room in excitement this early in the morning. Taking Emily by the hand, he lead her to the breakfast table and a seat while catching sight of what his friend held concealed from the child in his lap.

"Holmes?"

As if only just realizing he was no longer alone, Holmes twitched his hand briefly before sighing in resignation at his own lack of comprehension. His darkly puzzled expression flashed in Watson's direction as he handed over the paper. Turning his most charming smile upon his niece, he took in her well-dressed appearance with a slightly raised eyebrow.

"Good morning, Emily," Holmes greeted with sparkling gray eyes. "You are looking quite lovely this morning. Is your father teaching you more bad habits in the areas of truancy?"

Emily could not help snickering behind her hand as those blue eyes twinkled merrily. Watson grunted in amusement before returning his attention to the missive in his hands. Before he could say anything, however, Emily recovered herself.

"Ms. Tuckfield is not feeling well today. We were going to do some shopping and visit the park before he attends my lessons today."

Holmes frowned thoughtfully for a moment before turning his next question to Watson, who was, by this point perusing, the envelope with the same scrutiny he had the message itself. "I take it Ms. Tuckfield's illness is the type that will be ending in a visit to the altar soon?"

Watson barked a laugh as he handed the paper and envelope back to Holmes. "Yes, I believe that is the case."

Holmes simply shook his head as he again returned his attention to the letter. "I will begin some polite inquiries in the next day or two regarding a new governess, if that is agreeable with you. What do you make of it, Watson?"

"Given the effort required to cover their identity, I would say it is someone who feels it very important to get the message across to you, while remaining out of sight. It's short enough to seem almost threatening, but I cannot make any sense of it."

This sort of vague exchange was not uncommon around Emily. Often they would trade their thoughts regarding cases or recent communications, even newspaper articles, with only the vaguest actual information. Emily always politely pretended she wasn't fidgeting in her attempts to keep her own questions silenced. From the very first she had expressed an interest in their work, along with all the natural curiosity of a growing child. Now eight years old, she had proven herself to possess a very sharp intellect that kept the two men on their toes when it came to keeping secrets. But both had agreed she would have no part in their work at any point in the near future.

Apparently they both failed in keeping her ignorant this morning. As Holmes folded up the paper to set it aside for the breakfast that would soon arrive, Watson noticed Emily's sudden pallor and wide eyes. Gently he brushed aside her blond curls, frowning in concern.

"Emily?"

Holmes froze in mid-movement himself seeing her fearful expression. She seemed completely frozen, though those deep blue eyes were somewhere far away. He had seen that expression before, and it never grew any less painful. Dropping the envelope and paper on the table, he grabbed her up quickly repositioning her in his lap. Watson's fearful expression clouded with worry seeing Holmes' own reaction.

"It'll pass," Holmes told her gently, rubbing her lace-covered back as she trembled slightly. "Just breathe and listen to my voice. I'm right here, Emily."

As if coming out of a trance, Emily took a deep, shuddering breath before she blinked several times and nodded. Burying her face in the layers of his dressing gown for a moment, she quite obviously fought to regain control.

"Holmes?" Watson queried gently, knowing the two were sharing something he could not understand.

Holmes flashed a sad smile at his friend that was obviously meant to be reassuring before returning his attention to the little girl in his arms. She breathed deeply a few more times before finally sitting up and pulling away. He was happy to note those eyes were dry, though wondered if the release of tears would have been preferable in her case. However, she flushed a bright scarlet as she caught sight of the worry in her adopted father's bright green eyes. Launching herself from Holmes' lap, she jumped into Watson's arms who seemed much comforted by this, but no less worried.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," she whispered into his shoulder. "I remembered again."

Relaxing visibly, Watson sighed with relief as he held her close for several seconds. She had been thrown back to the horrifying images of her parents being murdered in front of her. Though he turned questioning eyes on his friend across the table, Holmes studiously kept his eyes averted. Watson noticed the faintest tinge of pink in his friend's pale face, though that made him wonder once again all the things he did not know about Holmes' own life before they had met. But, for now, Emily was his concern.

"It's quite alright, dear," Watson told her softly. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Again taking a few deep breaths, she nodded and sat up a little straighter. But, this time she did not pull away as Watson held her close. She kept her eyes down as the red flush refused to recede.

"I'm sorry, Uncle Holmes. I looked."

Holmes' eyebrows tilted into an only slightly disapproving angle briefly, though he did not comment on it. "And what did it make you see?"

"Mum used to sing it to me. And then I saw...I saw..."

As she began trembling, Holmes reached out to tilt her chin up until she was facing him. "You don't have to explain, Emily. But can you remember the song?"

Seemingly glad to put aside her guilt at having peeked where she knew she should not have, Emily nodded enthusiastically. She closed her eyes for a moment. When she reopened them, they were again distant, but seeming much brighter. After a few seconds she smiled as her little, slightly uncertain voice began a rather lively timed melody neither recognized. Though, Watson's face brightened as he suddenly recalled that he_ did_ remember the words, just not the melody.

"Monday's child is fair of face.

Tuesday's child is full of grace.

Wednesday's child is full of woe.

Thursday's child has far to go.

Friday's child is loving and giving.

Saturday's child works hard for his living.

And the child that is born on the Sabbath Day

Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay."

"It's a nursery rhyme," Watson added, smiling down proudly at his daughter. "I remember Mary mentioning it once or twice."

Holmes nodded, absorbing this before finally commenting. "Sounds like some fortune-teller's rubbish."

Watson nodded his agreement, though Emily frowned in disappointment before returning to her own chair. She didn't have many memories of her parents that didn't inevitably lead her back to the horrific images of their murders that plagued her nightmares even now. To hear them speak ill over her head about something she cherished as a good memory did not sit well with her. Neither of them noticed her withdrawn attitude as they resumed their previously discarded discussion.

"But what does it mean?" Watson asked the obvious.

Holmes mused for a moment before chuckling as if to himself. Turning his gray eyes glinting with amusement upon his friend, he explained, "I wonder what brother Mycroft would think if he were to be accused of being 'loving and giving'?"

Even Watson had to chuckle at that one. His own voice was tinged in amusement as he returned, "It would certainly explain a lot in my own case, I suppose."

"Wednesday?" Holmes queried with some surprised amusement of his own.

Watson nodded, almost ruefully. By this point Emily's attention had been diverted in translating this conversation for herself.

"Tuesday! I was born on a Tuesday!"

Both of the men turned their attention back to her with renewed interest. There were few clues to her early life that they had ever been able to uncover. The subject of her age and birthday had been of particular interest to them, since she had so few memories that would lead them to her biological family. Shortly after moving back to Baker Street to maintain the image of bachelorhood with Emily safely hidden next door in the care of a governess, Emily had fallen into a bleakness almost too deep for either of them to reach her. There was something about late winter into early spring that stirred the child to confront memories she was not yet ready to explore. In desperation to help her out of it, Holmes had declared the fifteenth of March her new birthday. And, as expected, a unique sort of birthday party had been thrown.

Before they could question her memories further, Mrs. Hudson entered with a breakfast tray heavily ladened with all of Emily's favorites. Though Mrs. Hudson smiled sweetly, she threw a defiant eyebrow at the audible sigh Watson heaved at the sight of their chosen breakfast. Like any other child, that many sweet things this early in the morning meant he was likely to have his hands full. Briefly Watson wondered what he had done to offend his former landlady this time. Holmes buried his grin behind his tea cup. Catching sight of this, Watson quickly turned his expression to one of mischief.

"I'm so glad you offered to join us, dear chap."

Holmes chuckled openly at this, accepting graciously. For a time they ate in silence, thoroughly enjoying their breakfast and the bright morning sunlight streaming through the sitting room windows. Holmes' only regret in their company was the lack of a morning pipe as he continued to turn that message over and over in his mind. He had agreed with Watson that though smoking in the sitting room was perfectly acceptable, it would not be so when Emily was present. The child was by no means delicate, but her constitution had suffered greatly for the starvation and exposure she had suffered while in captivity. It was a simple agreement that she not be exposed so as to reduce possible complications. In his own home, next door, Watson forbade smoking entirely.

Despite his craving for a pipe, he was easily distracted seeing Emily's thoughtfully frowning expression as she paid more attention to her memories than her food. He exchanged an equally considering glance with Watson, no less tinged with concern than his own. Both feared a relapse of her previous breakdown if she continued to dwell on those memories for too long.

"This restlessness seems to be infectious," Holmes commented, putting aside his own nearly full plate. "The weather is far too pleasant to be sitting around this stuffy room, wouldn't you say, Emily?"

As if just coming back to herself, Emily started and then blushed. She nodded, still seeming somewhat distant. Glancing down at her plate, she finished off a few more bites to satisfy her father before setting aside her own. Watson was wearing an encouraging smile to let her know he was not unhappy with her lack of appetite. Before he could say anything, however, her eyes widened once more as if in surprise.

"May I be excused for a few minutes?"

Still somewhat concerned, Holmes and Watson shared a glance over her head that exchanged many things.

"I would like to get...something from my room, if I may," she explained in a voice only slightly touched with exasperation.

It sounded enough like Holmes' own voice when having to explain what he did not feel like explaining that Watson could not prevent the grin that twitched his lips when he met those gray eyes briefly once more. Relieved as well as amused by this display of annoyance, Watson smiled at her encouragingly.

"Of course you may," Watson answered a touch curious, but more than willing to let her explain in her own time.

Quickly Emily bounded from her chair giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before dashing out of the sitting room door and up the stairs to Watson's former bedroom that now kept the main door to the two houses. They both listened for a moment as the noises disappeared into Watson's house and grew silent.

"What about you, Holmes? You never did say."

Holmes cocked an amused eyebrow before very deliberately rising from the table to finish dressing for the day. Not surprised in the least, Watson let it go for the time being. He knew he would find out eventually. Though, he could easily suspect his friend's secrecy meant he was less than pleased with the association, even if only for the sake of humor. His guess was likely to be either Sunday or Friday. He reminded himself to look it up the next time he had a spare minute. He sipped his coffee while turning his thoughts to planning out his day. He had only gotten so far as where they would go for new clothing for Emily before he heard her little footsteps descending the stairs. Her excitement obviously had not lessened during her absence. He set aside his coffee as he rose from the table to greet her.

Emily threw open the door and was bounding up in front of him before he'd taken more than two steps toward the door. Her eyes were wide with triumphant excitement as she presented a book Watson did not recall seeing previously in their collection.

"Ms. Tuckfield allowed me to borrow it," Emily quickly explained as she handed the open book up to Watson. "I'm six years old now!"

Kneeling down, Watson briefly ignored the book as he took her shoulders gently in an effort to calm her somewhat while trying to contain his own excitement. "Do you remember?"

Emily beamed a smile as she nodded making her golden curls bounce animatedly as Holmes returned from his own bedroom. "Tuesday, February twenty-third, eighteen ninety-two!"

"Well done, Emily!" Holmes congratulated, patting her on the shoulder as he retrieved the open book from where Watson had left it.

Watson swept her up in a hug, for a moment not even caring how she had remembered. The fact that she was willing to remember and had done so successfully was all he cared about now. "That is excellent! Now we can throw you a proper birthday party next year."

Emily's smile fell as she pulled back a little to face him directly, her expression almost stern. "No, Daddy. I want the birthday you and Uncle Holmes gave me."

For a moment, Watson sat confused as he cocked his head at her questioningly. Having caught some of this, Holmes prevented him from asking as he nudged Watson in the shoulder with the book.

"Then a Sunday child you shall be," Holmes declared, once again seeming to understand what Watson could not.

"March fifteenth," she confirmed happily.

"Though you must realize you are now a year younger than you were two months ago," Holmes teased.

"I know," she replied more seriously as Watson returned his attention to their conversation. "Ms. Tuckfield had told me she had this book some time ago, and I asked to borrow it to show you. I didn't know the name, but I remember Mum showing me these flowers on my birthday. I knew I would find them in this book."

"Iris," Watson mused, pondering the strange bloom sketched in the book.

Again Emily nodded excitedly. "She said they were special. They only bloomed around my birthday. When I saw the picture I remembered!"

With no small amount of pride, Watson handed back the book smiling. Catching sight of something uncertain behind those deep blue eyes, he laid a gentle hand upon her little shoulder. Thinking, perhaps, it was something still about her birthday, he considered how to proceed without upsetting her.

"Are you certain about your birthday?"

Emily flushed slightly, but did not hesitate to nod. "Yes. I..."

Kneeling down beside her to join Watson on her level, Holmes took her shoulders gently turning her to face him. "Is there something you wish to ask?"

She bit her lip uncertainly alternating her gaze from one to the other of them before taking a step back. Sensing her need to withdraw from them somewhat, Watson leaned back a little glad that Holmes took his cue and did the same.

"Emily, please don't be afraid—" Watson started softly.

"I'm not Emily!" she blurted, tears rolling down her face as she stared at her toes.

Taken aback by this outburst, Watson threw Holmes a helpless glance. Holmes' gray eyes had already narrowed in suspicion as he contemplated this. For him, it was not entirely unexpected. He had always wondered if she was aware of the truth.

"Do you remember, now?" he prodded her gently.

Emily choked back sobs as she fisted her eyes while nodding miserably. "I didn't—didn't mean to—to lie."

Unable to resist this heart-wrenching sight, Watson gently reached out to take her hands away from her face so he could face her directly.

"It's alright, dear heart," he soothed. "You don't have to tell us, if you're not ready."

Emily struggled for control before launching herself into his arms nearly bowling him over. Watson rocked her gently, ignoring the twinges in his thigh as he sat back on his heels. Her tears were short-lived as she buried her face in his good shoulder.

"I don't—I don't know, Daddy," she whispered miserably.

"It's alright, E—" he cut himself off, not entirely sure what to do.

"I didn't remember," she said, almost too softly for Holmes to hear. "I don't know who called me Emily. Mum called me Violet."

"That's a beautiful name for a beautiful young lady," Holmes stated encouragingly, having shifted closer to the pair.

Emily pulled back a little from Watson as she shook her head, still consumed in her misery. Though the tears had stopped, both could clearly see she was struggling to keep it that way.

"Please tell me," Watson begged gently, already suspecting where this was going.

"I want to be your _Emily.._."

Watson again squeezed her gently. "You don't have to change your name."

Again she pulled back, this time more forcefully as she withdrew from them once more. The two waited helplessly for her to find the words to say what she was trying so hard to comprehend for herself. She finally raised her head to stare them both in the eyes, though the fear an uncertainty had not entirely left her expression.

"I...I want to be Violet, too."

Holmes very nearly smiled seeing the defiance that rose in her expression as she forced herself to confront them with this statement. He had never doubted her spirit or her strength, for she would not have survived her captivity without them.

"Emily Violet Bell-Watson?" Holmes suggested.

Absorbing this with a thoughtful expression, Emily paused. She bit her lip uncertainly as she glanced at Watson, almost fearful. Watson's expression of encouragement and understanding seemed to convince her. She nodded hesitantly, as if still afraid she had offended Watson. Watson's smile was warm and sincere in those green eyes, though he cocked his head in question again.

"Are you certain, Emily? We can change it to Violet Emily, if you prefer."

At this suggestion she quickly shook her head. Watson seemed to consider this for a moment, before throwing an impish grin and wink at Holmes. "While we're going about it, we could always slip Holmes in there somewhere. Though, that might be a bit much for a poor girl. Emily Violet Bell-Holmes-Watson."

The look of mock horror on Holmes' face was enough to have Emily stifling giggles now. "You would give my brother the legal sway to corrupt this beautiful child into one of his mindless minions?"

Even Watson could not hold back a laugh at Holmes' theatrics as he watched his friend scoop up the now giggling child possessively.

"Very well, then. Emily Violet Bell-Watson," he smiled fondly down at his daughter in Holmes' protective arms.

For a moment she cocked her head as if pondering the name for herself.

"Emily Violet Watson?" she offered softly, as if uncertain from within the circle of Holmes' arms.

"Emily, you don't have to give up your sir name for taking back your own name," Holmes explained, no small amount of fondness in his own expression.

Those deep blue eyes met his gray ones with a flash of annoyance. One thing she had proven time and again was that she did not like being talked to as a child. She knew when Holmes would slip into that tone and resented it fully. Of course, she had not hesitated to use it on him in return when the occasion arose.

"I know. But I_ want _to change it. I just wanted to remember. I wanted something they gave me of their own. And you gave me Watson." She hesitated for a moment before blurting out, "Will you give me Holmes?"

Having seen this coming, Holmes chuckled. He did not spare a glance for the expression of hope he knew he would find on Watson's face. For some time, now he had taken the position as second father, though she continued to call him Uncle Holmes. He was already well-prepared for this argument.

"No, Emily. I would not curse you with such a name for all the wealth in the Empire. However, if you like, I will give a name I cherish far more than my own. Adeline."

Watson stifled his rising curiosity at the renewed joy he saw in his daughter's eyes as she threw her arms around Holmes' neck, burying her face in his shoulder. Holmes' own smile as he returned the embrace was one that dared Watson to ask; though both knew he would not answer the question any more than he had the obvious day of his birth.

Finally able to relieve the throbbing pain in his leg by standing, Watson carefully flexed his legs as Holmes set Emily back on her feet. She wasted no time in wrapping her arms around the very same leg as if in apology for causing the hurt. Touched by this, but wanting to keep the light mood that had appeared thanks to Holmes, he patted her golden curls quickly before pulling her back up into his arms. Feeling an echoing twinge in his shoulder, he wondered how much longer he would be able to do this before she was just too much for these disappointing reminders of his past.

"Well then, my dear. Where would you propose we start our day?" Holmes asked brightly, quickly stuffing his pockets with a few needed items.

Emily seemed to consider this before whispering something into Watson's ear. Though Holmes did not catch what it was, he really did not care for the look of mischief in those green eyes as Watson glance in his direction briefly. Those matching expressions of patently fake innocence were similar enough to make him halt out of sheer curiosity. When Watson whispered something back into those blond curls and she nodded enthusiastically, he began to wonder if he didn't have other things he should be doing this morning. Seconds later as deep blue and bright green eyes glinted at him in a way he could only think of as wicked glee, he became certain he was forgetting an appointment somewhere in the city.

~o~o~o~

Hours later a doddering pair of grandparents shuffled along the street just outside the Diogenes Club in search of a cab with Emily between them. Watson still snickered every time he heard Holmes grumbling behind his veil. Holmes still did not know for certain which of them had decided he would be the grandmother today instead of dressing up Mrs. Hudson for the part, but he could guess. However, he knew without a doubt it had been Watson's idea that Emily finally meet Mycroft, if only for a few minutes. It was an uneccesary meeting, as Mycroft had been the one to manage the paperwork formalizing Emily's adoption in the first place. Using the excuse that her name needed to be changed and this would, of course, go through Mycroft, Watson had insisted that they do so today. Shopping and other excursions could—mercifully, in Holmes' opinion—wait for another day.

Mycroft, laying no claims to the child in any sense, had treated her formally and respectfully. He had raised an eyebrow briefly in Holmes' direction at the addition of a name they both knew so well, but refrained from commenting. Nonetheless he had not wasted a single opportunity when she was out of earshot to tweak Holmes mercilessly for his current disguise. Watson had been hard pressed to contain his mirth on numerous occasions as these verbal jabs were delivered in the same drily bored tone the elder Holmes had always used when addressing his little brother. With his veil raised in the privacy of their little meeting room buried in the back of the club, there was no missing the rising color in Holmes' face that had nothing to do with the makeup he had employed.

Finally spying a cab that was not already occupied, Watson decided to put his friend out of his misery for the remaining afternoon. As he signalled for the cab, he flashed Holmes a grin.

"Emily and I will return in a couple of hours," Watson explained as he gestured for Holmes to get into the cab. "I would like to pickup some supplies while we are out."

For a moment, Holmes was torn between wanting to join them and wanting to flee to the safety of the sitting room before he had the incredible misfortune to stumble upon Lestrade...or worse. Lestrade had grown accustomed to seeking out the two men in disguise whenever he caught sight of Emily. At least Lestrade knew of Emily, unlike the rest of London. And, this had only come about through accident when Watson had been caught out in the country on holiday with Emily. Though Holmes still had a great mistrust of most within the ranks of Scotland Yard after the events that preceded Emily's adoption over two years earlier, Lestrade had more than proven himself to the detective.

Eventually, the need to shed himself of this uncomfortably itchy and binding disguise won out over the desire to spend the day wandering London with his friend and niece. With a nod, he seated himself in the cab as Watson called out an address on Marylebone that would put Holmes within a quick walk of the rear of their building and the recently added concealed back door. For one heartbeat Holmes recalled the message that had ultimately sent them to this end of the city in the first place. Reassuring himself that none of them fell into the Monday indicated in the missive, he quickly dismissed the idea.

The shadow of foreboding that crept around the edges of his thoughts was not so easily dismissed.


	3. Monday's Child Part II

**Monday's Child**

**Part Two**

The musical notes that drifted up the stairs as Watson exited his bedroom in his own home and into his former bedroom in Holmes' made him pause for a moment to listen. Though it was a familiar melody, he could tell almost instantly that it was not Holmes playing the violin this afternoon. While Emily was busy with her afternoon lessons, Watson had decided to finally answer Holmes' summons in regards to a recent case he had been working. Though still somewhat irked with the detective over a recent argument involving some of his late-night habits disturbing his neighbors, he never could resist the call of adventure when Holmes had a case.

Not wanting to disturb the detective while he was tutoring Matthew, Watson turned away from the sitting room door on the landing and was about to go down and see about some tea with Mrs. Hudson. After their argument, he doubted Holmes would come looking for him, so he might yet have time. Apparently he had not been quiet enough, or Holmes was not as intent on his study of Matthew's performance today. Before he'd gone more than a few steps the sitting room door was flung open. Holmes was smiling quite excitedly at the side of his former flatmate and friend as he motioned silently for Watson to join them in the sitting room.

Watson took in the sight of the boy standing near the fire with his eyes closed playing with all his heart and paused. Though young, he really was excellent. He could easily see why Holmes had been so intent on seeing to the lad's tutoring personally. Holmes had discovered Matthew's interest in music shortly after their return to London in the spring of 1896, some two years ago. While Watson had been occupied mostly with getting Emily settled into their new home, Holmes had quickly taken up the boy's interest and cultivated it into what they now saw and heard. Like any proud father, Holmes stood beside Watson all but glowing with pride. To anyone else, the detective was simply eying the display with extra caring scrutiny. To Watson, he was quivering with barely contained excitement.

As the piece ended and Matthew opened his eyes to see Holmes' judgment, Watson smiled encouragingly.

"There, you see, Watson! He is more than ready for further education."

Matthew's face flushed with pride as Holmes had come over to lay a hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Possessing no musical talent myself, I am not much of a judge. But, by my simple standards, it was an excellent performance. Thank you, Matthew."

"Return it to its case properly, Matthew, and leave it on the settee," Holmes instructed him, watching out of the corner of his eye to make sure the boy followed his instructions. "I will see to it later."

Still glowing with the praise Holmes had bestowed, Matthew nodded shyly letting his mop of wild blond hair cover most of his face as he turned to his task. The boy never had said much around Watson, though it was his understanding that the boy had fairly come alive when alone with the detective. The lad was forever hiding behind his hair, which annoyed Holmes to no end. The boy's face was just that, a young boy's. Watson was well aware that he was much closer to a young man, but with such a cherubic face, it was hard to keep in mind that he was closer to adulthood than he appeared. Still, try what he might, Holmes could not break him of the shy nature and desire to hide his face whenever the opportunity presented itself. Given that he was only a few weeks away from being sent to a school, Holmes could only hope at this point that more structured environs and tutors would have better luck in that category.

After leaving the violin in its case on the settee, Matthew ducked his head once more at Watson before exiting the sitting room. Holmes, still smiling quite open for his normally closed off nature, poured them both tea.

"I take it you have forgiven me for my latest transgression?" Holmes queried more in amusement than any real concern as he handed Watson his cup.

"For the moment," Watson agreed more seriously as they headed toward their customary seats beside the fire seeking their pipes.

Holmes' cheeks colored slightly at the silent look of rebuke Watson threw him. "It was not my intention to wake Emily, I assure you."

"It never is," Watson said more sternly. "If you are truly that restless, I would rather you come and wake me. You always have in the past. Have I said or done something to indicate I do not wish your company?"

"Of course not," Holmes waved this off. "You need your sleep."

Watson grinned around the stem of his pipe as he lit it. "As I recall, I was needing sleep then as well. You simply had not noticed that fact."

Holmes' face flushed quite brilliantly this time at his reminder of previous night-time habits. "I don't suppose an apology at this late date would absolve me for the crime of robbing you of your precious sleep."

"You are, of course, forgiven, dear chap. I was simply reminding you that there is a reason the door was placed in my former bedroom. More often than you think, I am awake and restless myself. I try not to make a habit of disturbing you with my restless thoughts."

Holmes frowned for a moment in concern. Before he had a chance to ask, Watson waved him off lightly.

"Don't trouble yourself, Holmes. I am simply restless and needing more than a handful of patients to occupy my time."

Holmes considered this for a moment, his previous concern for Watson's emotional state eased. He had not kept Watson out of his investigations, though he made a point of ensuring he was home more often than away. As a father, his friend and partner had responsibilities Holmes was more than willing to keep in mind when determining what cases he took on with Watson. Though, for himself, he often took many that were mentally stimulating and did not require Watson's assistance at all.

Watson had opened a practice of his own nearly a year ago, now. It was not for the financial reasons that had first prompted the doctor so many years ago. He still performed charity rounds of the lower-class sections of London, in addition to his own small practice that was open only three days or so a week. His responsibilities as a father to Emily ensured that he only took the most critical of the night-time callers when another could not be found. Considering all these things, Holmes could quite easily see how his active friend was lacking in stimulation that would lead him to a few restless nights when the weather was so pleasant.

"She is sleeping well, then?" Holmes asked gently.

Watson nodded, relieving Holmes of his brief concern. "The nightmares have not returned. At least, not enough that she's needing me of late."

Hearing a note of something akin to regret, Holmes refrained from smiling. Though by no means a father himself, he could clearly remember the first time one of his Irregulars had grown beyond the need of his protection or employment. There had been both pride and disappointment he could easily sense in his friend now. He was thankful Emily had some years yet before she would grow into an independent young woman no longer needing her father and uncle. Though, there was something curious in this turn about of understanding that amused him.

"Well, if you are so equally restless, I'm sure you know how to make your way down to the sitting room without need of further prompting on my part."

Unable to resist one last jab, Watson smiled to soften the blow as he tossed back, "If you call the resounding crash of stacked furniture 'prompting', then yes, I'll gladly make my presence known before it reaches that point."

Holmes barked a laugh at this display of his friends humor before launching himself from his chair to retrieve some papers from his desk. "So, Watson, are you restless enough for a little outing this evening?"

"You did mention you had a case. Are you needing my assistance?"

The note of thinly concealed enthusiasm in the doctor's voice did not go unnoticed. "I might be in need of someone to take a few notes regarding the high points of the case, yes."

Watson huffed a laugh himself at the detective's teasing. "Well, if that is all, I should leave you to your business while Emily and I seek other entertainment this evening."

"And miss out on the intrigue, my dear friend? Come now, I know my Watson better than that, I think."

Watson watched with unmasked curiosity as Holmes returned to his seat with several papers. Keeping his peace, he waited for his friend to organize himself. As ever, Holmes only presented the smallest amount of information leading up to where he would be needing Watson's assistance. In all their years working together, he had yet to change this one—quite irksome—habit. But, as the master, Watson had no choice but to accept. He listened attentively as Holmes led him through the string of clues and deductions that had lead to the need for them to obtain some additional information at a local drinking establishment in a haunt with which Watson was, unfortunately, all too familiar. In a place that rough, even the great detective would not go unarmed.

"That is quite a twisted plot for simple blackmail," Watson observed, considering all he had learned. "Are you certain there is not more to all of this?"

"I'm quite certain there is more. I have already uncovered Mr. Blackwell's secrets and scandals, much to his regret. Likely, he will be joining our—as yet—unknown blackmailer as a guest of Scotland Yard's finest gaols."

Sensing a note of pride in this accomplishment, Watson complimented him in his usual fashion before they fell into a quiet moment of companionship. Watson turned over all he had learned and planned for the night ahead while Holmes obviously congratulated himself on his part and what he would be doing with all this information. Knowing he was going to be out quite late, Watson was glad that his practice was not scheduled to be open again until Wednesday. For a Monday night, this sounded like just what he needed to start his week to rid himself of some of the restlessness he had been feeling. Though he had not told Holmes, the nicer weather so early had stirred a few of the memories he had once shared with his dear Mary. A vague sort of loneliness would catch him unawares in the late hours of the night, leaving him once again writing, sketching, or occasionally pacing his room deep in thought.

Apparently Holmes was not as deep in thought as Watson had assumed, for he caught Holmes eyeing him a moment later. As ever, the detective had been reading his thoughts through the expressions he knew were likely far too plain on his face. Heaving a sigh, Watson set aside his pipe.

"I believe I shall go for a walk. If it is not too much of a bother, would you care to join me?"

Holmes smiled warmly, not for a moment doubting where this walk was likely to lead. "Of course, dear chap."

Though Watson had said nothing of the matter in recent weeks, Holmes could tell the man's thoughts had again turned to those of his family that he had lost. Emily had done much to heal those wounds. But Holmes suspected there would always be those times he needed to return to their resting place. He was certain his friend often went alone during those times. Holmes, himself, occasionally visited on his own. Yet it was these times when Watson brought him along for both comfort and the sharing of these memories that assured him his friend was not falling back into the depression that had very nearly destroyed him during those first years.

Pausing to buy some flowers along the way, Holmes kept the conversation light and listened to Watson's recollections more than he spoke. He was glad he could do this for his friend, as there had seemed little else he could do. Both of their moods were greatly lifted by the beautiful, sunny weather of that Monday afternoon by the time they returned to their rooms on Baker Street.

~o~o~o~

Holmes almost could not tell the difference between the pounding on the door and the pounding in his head. Almost. But, it was Watson's voice that finally convinced him that returning to consciousness, though painful, would be a good idea. Their little information gathering excursion had, unfortunately, ended in a scuffle when some ruffians thought the two of them would be easy prey. A clip to the head with a makeshift club had ended his part of the fight. Which, of course, left Watson all but carrying him back to Baker Street. The torment the man inevitably put him through afterward had left him in a less than pleasant mood each and every time Watson woke him to check on his responsiveness. Based on the angle of the sunlight now filtering through his bedroom window, Holmes could easily estimate it had been some three hours since Watson's last check. He must have passed, though all he could remember was some rather vile language he had thrown at his friend.

Hearing Watson's lowered voice as he now conferred with Lestrade in the sitting room, Holmes stifled a groan as he forced himself off the bed in search of his dressing gown. He checked himself in his mirror to ensure he was putting on a face that would convince both the inspector and his friend that he was up to the visit. Entering the sitting room, he immediately sensed Lestrade's tension along with Watson's confusion and frustration.

"Holmes," Lestrade piped up, eyeing him critically, "it's urgent that I speak with you."

Watson glared warningly as Holmes deliberately ignored the doctor, heading for his desk chair with a wave for Lestrade to continue. "I am quite well enough to hear out Lestrade's little problem, Watson."

Huffing, Watson headed for the sitting room door to call the maid for some tea, his irritation evident in that stiff back. Holmes sighed to himself as he realized he was likely in for another lecture from the doctor side of his friend before the day was out. However, as he seated himself, the tension in Lestrade's demeanor mixed with something else entirely had him scrutinizing the man much more closely. Despite the pounding of his head, there was no missing that Lestrade was deeply concerned about something as he finally took a seat on the settee.

"John says you had a bit of excitement last night," Lestrade started tentatively.

"His concern is the usual regarding head wounds. Please get to the point of your visit or leave me to my rest," Holmes shot back irritably.

Lestrade's lips tightened, though his expression did not shift. "You're not going to like this, Holmes. We—"

The ringing of the bell interrupted whatever Lestrade was about to tell him. He could hear Watson answering the door himself as he was obviously already downstairs. But his shout a second later had both the inspector and the detective running for the sitting room door. They rounded the corner of the landing to find Watson in the foyer at the bottom of the stairs holding a wailing child of no more than five with Jacob standing nearby stiffly holding himself together.

"Holmes—" Lestrade started again, but was cut off as the detective launched himself down the stairs.

Watson was trying to soothe the little boy as Jacob turned horror-filled eyes brimming with tears on the detective.

"They asked for you," Watson explained from where he was seated on the floor.

"Holmes—" Lestrade started once more.

"Jacob?" Holmes asked, completely ignoring Lestrade.

"Holmes!" Lestrade shouted, effectively silencing the child crying into Watson's chest.

"What the blazes—"

This time it was Holmes' turn to be ignored as Lestrade pushed him aside to kneel in front of Jacob. Taking the trembling boy by the shoulders, he softened his expression. "He was one of yours?"

His breath hitching, Jacob nodded as the first tears began to fall. A father himself, Lestrade's heart tugged at the sight of the boy trying so hard to keep himself together. Giving in to his instincts, he enveloped Jacob in his arms as he turned his dark eyes on Holmes. As if this had been some sort of permission, Jacob let loose sobs of his own as the other child resumed his own tears. By this point Holmes' face had turned into a deathly pallor as he at last began to understand.

"How?"

"Not here," Lestrade said. "I will take you."

"Who?"

Lestrade shook his head sadly, not knowing the answer. However, Jacob had obviously caught the question. Forcing himself to breathe deeply, he tried to reign in his tears as he pulled away from the inspector.

"Matthew," he answered in a voice still thick with his outburst.

Holmes frowned deeply. The sadness he had felt at the initial revelation of the loss of one of his Irregulars quickly transformed into something colder and far more dangerous. Watson recognized that look, and it did not bode well for the target of his friend's ire. Lestrade's expression, however, spoke far more than he could understand. There was something here he was obviously missing as a look passed between the detective and the inspector. Holmes, having caught something of this himself, raised an eyebrow in silent query. Again Lestrade shook his head minutely before nodding toward Jacob.

Holmes stepped around the inspector to lay an comforting hand on Jacob's little shoulder. Those long fingers squeezed briefly in Holmes' version of a hug.

"You did well to report in," he told the boy. "For the time being, I want you to spread the word. All of you know where to go. I do not want to see any of you on the streets unless I call for you. Do you remember the plan?"

Sensing Holmes was now giving orders, Jacob stood straighter facing his mentor directly. "Yes, Mr. Holmes."

"Then you will tell the others. I will send an escort if one of you is needed. Remember the code and wait for me."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes," Jacob repeated firmly.

Holmes let that dangerous glint flash brightly. "Take care of yourself and the others. I will deal with this, I promise you."

Jacob nodded to this, satisfied and comforted.

"Now go."

Gathering up the younger boy that had followed, Jacob let himself out. At that point, Holmes headed back up the stairs to the sitting room with Watson and Lestrade close behind. His barely contained cold fury was evident in every quivering muscle as he closed the door behind them. Again sensing he was missing something vitally important, Watson took a seat away from the two as he awaited the explosion he knew was coming.

"Now," Holmes demanded in a low voice, obviously unable to say more at the moment.

Lestrade, needing no further clarification, put aside his own feelings to launch into a description that had even Watson's stomach roiling. It was too horrific to contemplate, though he knew Lestrade would never have exaggerated such a thing. Meanwhile, Holmes disappeared into his bedroom once more to trade his dressing gown for fresh clothes, listening quite intently. When Lestrade reached the part of the description that had him shuffling his feet and casting aside his professionalism, Holmes reappeared half-dressed with his shirt still hanging open. He gripped Lestrade by the arms forcing the man to meet those piercing gray eyes.

"You're certain?"

Lestrade roughly jerked his arms out of Holmes' grip, turning away for a moment. When he turned back, it was as if all his years with Scotland Yard had come crashing back to age him by a decade or more. He was more weary and disheartened than Watson could ever remember seeing. Yet, there was a fire behind those dark eyes that spoke of deep anger, as well.

"I've not watched your work all these years to have learned nothing from you, Holmes," he said with no small amount of irritation. "They are the same. I would stake my reputation on it."

In an uncharacteristic display of distraction, Holmes let the opportunity for a verbal jab pass right over him. His eyes briefly crossed Watson's as he returned to his bedroom to finish dressing. His combined horror of the situation and curiosity were eating him alive as he waited. However, he knew neither Holmes nor Lestrade were deliberately withholding an explanation. They simply seemed wrapped up in a memory neither of them wished to revisit. Watson knew he would learn more than he cared soon enough. He could wait.

~o~o~o~

When they reached the alley only minutes from their rooms on Baker Street, Holmes set about the scene with an almost frightening intensity. Lestrade stood smoking a cigarette with trembling hands at the mouth of the alley. Knowing his presence would only interfere with what Holmes was trying to accomplish, Watson waited with the inspector. Eyeing the man's distant expression and barely concealed horror in those dark eyes, he resisted the urge to ask what was really on his mind.

"Alright there, Giles?" he finally prompted.

As if only just returning to the present to realize he was not alone, Lestrade started briefly before shaking himself visibly. Though he was well aware he did not have to maintain his mask of professionalism around his friend, Lestrade still felt the need for it—even if only to keep control of the memories that threatened to overwhelm him.

"No, not really," he finally answered.

Taking out his hip flask, Watson handed it over while positioning himself in such a way as to shield the man from the eyes of those walking the street around them. When Lestrade looked like he was going to refuse, Watson pressed it into his hand firmly. He was both disturbed and relieved when Lestrade quickly gave in and took a long pull from the flask.

"Thank you," Lestrade said quietly, returning the flask.

"Do you want to talk?"

Lestrade quickly shook his head. "Not yet."

Watson nodded sadly, still wondering what could have rattled the veteran inspector so deeply. However, the way he very deliberately avoided eye contact with the detective as he stalked up to them was enough to let him know neither were ready to address this yet.

"You don't want to do this, Holmes," Lestrade said, already knowing their next destination.

"I do."

"Holmes, we both know it's different when—"

"I am well aware of the...differences, Lestrade. But I will see this through."

"I already confirmed with my own records and memories, Holmes," Lestrade said sadly, though he turned to the doctor next. "Tell him, John. He doesn't—"

Suddenly Watson understood this exchange, as his heart plummeted. Holmes wanted to see Matthew's body. He had to admire the man's thoroughness. But, given what he knew of Holmes' heart that even Lestrade could not begin to fathom, he was in complete agreement.

"I appreciate your concern, Lestrade. However—"

"No, Holmes," Watson finally spoke up softly. "He's right. Don't—"

Holmes gritted his teeth as his eyes flared dangerously. Watson cut him off as he opened his mouth to argue.

"Holmes!" Watson snapped, his patience very nearly at an end. "There are other lines of inquiry you can pursue, I'm certain. _I _will go, unless you doubt my ability to accurately relay the information?"

This had been a bit of a gambit on his part, and he almost doubted it would work this time as Holmes returned to grinding his teeth and clenching his fists unconsciously. However, as Holmes visibly released some of his tension, Watson felt those cold gray eyes bore into him. The look that flitted there for a moment possessed a scrutiny he had not entirely expected, considering the circumstances; yet was not unwelcome, either. Holmes was not so lost to his own thoughts and feelings as to be ignorant of Watson's own. For a few seconds they shared a silent conversation that said many things to which they would not give voice even in Lestrade's company. Then Holmes' expression turned into something more challenging.

_As if it would be any easier for you, _Watson could almost hear Holmes' voice in his mind.

"Experience," Watson finally said aloud.

The flicker of an eyebrow and darkening of those gray eyes expressed as sadness that had Watson almost reconsidering his decision. He really did not want to leave his friend alone at this time. But, Holmes' concern had obviously been directed toward himself and not internally. Holmes held Watson's gaze for a few more seconds before finally nodding. Even he had to admit that the doctor was far more prepared and experienced in this than himself.

"Very well, then. I will meet you both at Scotland Yard in three hours."

Watson nodded, resisting the urge to squeeze Holmes' arm comfortingly as he knew the contact would not be welcome in Lestrade's presence. Turning away, he was just in time to see Lestrade hailing a cab. His heart heavy, they made the trip in silence. He did not doubt that many of his questions would soon be answered by what he would find waiting him in the dissecting rooms. No doubt, Lestrade would be busy digging up whatever previous case he had Holmes had been referring to while he was busy. He could well understand Holmes' now tormented feelings regarding the murder of one of his own Irregulars. But what had Lestrade so very shaken by all of this was another matter entirely.

Before the day was out, he could almost wish he had never learned.


	4. Monday's Child Part III

**Monday's Child**

**Part Three**

Though Lestrade had given a fairly accurate description of the body while they were still on Baker Street in the sitting room, Watson found he was not as prepared for the sight as he had thought. Lestrade stood quietly nearby as Watson uncovered the body, as if offering silent support. He was uncertain how well the doctor had known the lad, but he was not about to assume Watson's previous experiences in dealing with the corpses of friends and family members had left him inured. Even counting the doctor's experiences in the horrors of war had obviously not hardened him to the sight he now beheld.

He watched Watson's brow furrow slightly as those green eyes softened sadly. Though his hands were steady as he removed the sheet and began his observations, Lestrade could see there was something stirring beneath that mask of professionalism.

"It's quite alright, Giles," Watson said softly, interrupting his chain of thought. "You don't have to stay."

It was rare that the doctor would address him so informally in such a professional setting. Realizing that some of his thoughts must have been showing through his expressions, Lestrade colored slightly.

"I'm not questioning your professionalism, John," he was quick to assure.

Still bending over the child's body, Watson nodded once. Turning to Lestrade, he eyed him critically. "I did not mean to imply that you were. You seem rather more disturbed than I am accustomed to seeing from you. I am aware that there is more to this case. Is it personal?"

Only now did Lestrade realize Holmes had obviously never told him. His eyebrows shot up at this understanding. Though, he thought he really should not be surprised by this, it somehow did catch him off his guard. Finally he nodded, running a hand through his hair in muted frustration wondering just how much he had a right to tell.

"It was how I met Holmes," Lestrade started uncomfortably looking everywhere but at the body or Watson. "I think, perhaps, it would be better to let Holmes explain."

For a moment Watson almost argued this point; more out of a sense that the inspector needed to talk than to satisfy his own curiosity. The man looked tired and haunted. But something about this case having gotten far enough to involve them had seemed to take some of the weight off the inspector's currently bowed shoulders. Nodding slowly, he let the matter drop as he turned his attention back to the task at hand. Again, he forced away his own thoughts and feelings as he began the disheartening task of taking in every horrific detail; going so far as to precisely sketch various parts for Holmes' further perusal without having to be present. He was so lost to his task that he failed to notice Lestrade finally leaving to attend to his own duties elsewhere.

What he discovered later made him unspeakably grateful that Holmes had agreed not to attend to this himself.

~o~o~o~

Lestrade stared down at the little body on the dissecting table. Not for the first time he offered a silent prayer that it was not one of his own children. Though, after his first confrontation with that insufferably arrogant man in the gaol, he could not prevent the feeling of guilt that followed. He had not expected that little incident to weigh on him quite so heavily as it now did. He found those words coming back to him with each corpse that appeared in this sickening investigation. His heart rebelled at the truth of the matter, even as his mind lashed him with those words.

Mr. Holmes had been correct. Somewhere along the way Lestrade had grown to be like so many others in this cesspool of a city. Human life was ranked by social status and monetary value. He could clearly remember a time when he had been one of the lower-ranking members of society clawing his way up. Not until he had achieved a name for himself within the ranks of Scotland Yard did he at least feel accepted. He vividly recalled those years when he thought no life should be worth less than any other.

He wondered what had become of that man.

The bitterness that welled up at the realization that he was no better than so many others now had brought him to this point. Despite the warnings given by Mycroft Holmes of the dire consequences of dealing with this private consulting detective, he found himself seeking out those accusing gray eyes that haunted his thoughts. It had taken him a few days, but when two more little bodies turned up, he found himself willing to accept any help at all. As infuriating as the man's belittling demeanor towards him was, he was willing to suffer the indignity of the young man's presence if it would ease that guilt that now plagued his soul. These children deserved justice no less than any other inhabitant of this city; and he would not allow himself to give up without exploring all possible avenues in this investigation.

However, he again questioned the sanity of the young man as he watched him practically dancing with excitement over the body. The elder Holmes' warnings flitted through his mind again, as he wondered just what he had gotten himself into with this. Meanwhile, the younger Holmes began to share his observations on everything from the dirt under the nails giving away the child's residence to the particular type of stitch used to sew the dismembered parts back onto the body. Some of what he called simple deductions appeared anything but, to the inspector. Finally, when the young man was finished, Lestrade took him too his office as requested to view the information gathered from all the previous bodies.

"As I had expected, nothing useful. Really, Inspector Lestrade, are all of Scotland Yard's finest so very blind?"

Lestrade bit back a remark that would have done nothing to improve the situation. "Would you care to explain yourself, Mr. Holmes?"

Heaving a sigh as if dealing with a wearisome child, Holmes launched into his explanation. "All you really have are an ever-compounding list of bodies. You cannot tell me more than where they are found and approximately how long they had been left in that state. What evidence have you of the perpetrator? Have you tried tracing the thread purchases, as this is obviously not surgical material? Even the needles themselves have proven not to be those used in the medical profession! It is unlikely we are looking for a seamstress. The next obvious conclusion would be a tailor or some similar profession. Have you not even noticed that every single body has been facing a northerly direction? Though none of the children have been taken from the same place twice, they were all—"

"And how do you know _that_?" Lestrade asked pointedly, still questioning that vague suspicion crawling around the back of his mind.

The look of cold understanding in those gray eyes sharpened for a moment. "You still do not trust me."

"Not entirely, no."

For a moment, Lestrade thought he would be soon rid of this little annoyance as it seemed the younger Holmes was about to exit his office. Then those pale features smoothed and quickly transformed into a smirk.

"I have my sources of information, Inspector. It would not be in my favor to divulge them at this time. However, I can promise you that regarding me with suspicion is an utter waste of your time that will only leave you with more bodies. I urge you to put aside your feelings on the matter and deal with me rationally. Though I can imagine how difficult those concepts are for your limited intelligence to grasp—"

He'd had enough. Rising from his seat, he came around the desk ready to take the young man by the scruff of his neck if need be. Before he'd come more than halfway around the desk, the wiry young man had danced out of reach in a movement so fluid as to appear boneless. This did little to deter the irate inspector as he maneuvered closer to the door, instead.

"Out!" he barked.

"Inspector—"

"Not another word, Mr. Holmes!"

"I only meant—"

"Out! Now! Or I'll haul you up for trespassing!"

"Inspector—"

"That's quite enough!"

Lestrade was pleased to see something akin to fear cross those mask-like pale features as he turned to call for some constables.

"Wait!"

Lestrade crossed his arms to keep his hands from wrapping them around the young man's throat as he passed through the doorway with his nose in the air. Desperate as he was to at least find some answer to this miserable investigation, he would not put up with such abuse. At least with what the young man had given him, he would have a place to start. He had been correct in that their surgeons had remarked upon the fact that none of the materials used in the murders had in any way been medical supplies. But that still left them with thousands upon thousands of other sources.

Feeling more than a little overwhelmed by this, Lestrade had to re-affirm for himself that he was making the right decision. He would never again give those glittering gray eyes cause to haunt him. He would pursue this case for the rest of his career, if that was what it took. He just wished he could figure out what it was about that infuriating, egotistical young man that made him constantly feel he had to prove himself. Shaking off these sensation that he was being tested and found wanting, Lestrade turned back to his desk and the incredibly detailed findings that private consulting detective had given him thus far.

Maybe there was some chance he could find and catch the killer. But he'd be damned if he'd let Mr. Holmes know how very much he had just helped in setting him on the right track.

~o~o~o~

A knock on his office door roused Lestrade from this memory of the first and only time he'd ever bested the detective in a confrontation. He smiled to himself ruefully even now at the recollection that it had only happened by weight of his authority. Now, even that held no sway with the man that continued to inspire him.

"Come in, Dr. Watson," Lestrade called, having recognized that knock.

Despite the grim look on the doctor's features, he spared a concerned glance at the inspector. Realizing the doctor must have been knocking before the one he had heard, Lestrade flashed him a quirky curve of his lips in an approximation of a reassuring grin that fell far short; if Watson's expression was anything to judge by.

"I was lost in thought, John. Would you please stop fretting? Cee might start getting jealous," he tossed out, attempting to lighten the mood.

He was gratified to hear huff of a laugh as Watson took a seat in the chair across from him. "Your wife could do worse than fretting over you more than the grandchildren for a change," Watson returned lightly.

"Are you implying that I'm being neglected, Doctor?"

"I hear you've taken an occasional day off, even, to get her attention."

"I have no idea where you could pick up such rumors. Gossip is rather beneath a man of your stature."

Watson laughed openly for a moment before growing more serious. "How is she, Giles?"

It was not difficult for the inspector to remember Watson's own dealings with his now deceased wife as she had slowly faded away. The fact that this was a case of physical disease did little to lessen the doctor's sympathy. Of course, he would not be the well-known healer he was without that empathetic concern for even those of his patients he knew not at all.

"She's improving," Lestrade finally confessed. "Some days are better than others. And I think having Abby and her daughters with us now has helped considerably. She always did have more energy for children."

"And you?"

Lestrade again waved off his concerns as he noticed a hint of something akin to guilt behind those green eyes. "I'm quite alright, John. Just tired, is all. The worst of the shock has passed. I know I should retire, but Cee insists that doing so will be the death of her. How is Emily?"

Watson smiled broadly. "More beautiful every day."

"And a handful, I imagine, if she's helping to manage keeping Holmes out of my hair."

Watson chuckled again, acknowledging the truth of that statement. "Quite so."

For a moment they sat in the companionable silence of two men wrapped in their own thoughts. Finally, they could put it off no longer. Lestrade glanced down at the stacks and stacks of reports he'd pulled from his files. Watson tossed his own onto the desk, having no need to look at his notes to recall every horrific detail he had thus far uncovered. Lestrade picked up the papers, his eyes drawn to those precise sketches that had once amazed him when the doctor had begun using them from time to time in an investigation. Though he could not deny the usefulness of this talent, it disturbed him that the man was now using it for such a gruesome purpose.

MONDAY'S CHILD

Watson had perfectly captured the jagged edges of the flesh in which this had been carved, all the way down to the exposed ribs beneath. Lestrade stared down sadly at this sight, captured in such gut-twisting detail. Worse, however, were those precise, neat stitches Watson had also duplicated to perfection. They stared back at him mockingly as the ghosts of an investigation eighteen years ago stirred his memories. So much of this was different, but the mutilation and stitching matched perfectly.

"He's older than the previous victims," Lestrade offered, tearing his eyes away from those sketches. "The previous ones ranged in age from four to ten. I don't understand the reference, though I am aware of the nursery rhyme."

"Holmes received a note last Monday. I had hoped he would bring it along, but..." Watson gave a shrug, not needing to explain to Lestrade of all people. "Monday's child is fair of face."

"That's all?"

"Yes, but we had made little of it, as nothing seemed too threatening. Now, it would seem it was deliberately meant as a warning to Holmes."

Lestrade nodded sadly. He could not blame either of them, if the message was as unassuming as he suspected. "There was no way even Holmes could have known. The original case was before you had even left Afghanistan. And it had not been a targeted attack against Holmes, even then. This is something new, but the similarities are undeniable. The...suspect...died before Holmes could gain enough evidence to prove his part in the matter."

Watson had not spent all those years working alongside the detective for nothing. "There's more."

Turning away from his friend, Lestrade stared back into his memories. Before he had a chance to elaborate, Holmes knocked smartly on the door. The inspector put aside his thoughts as he called for the detective to enter. Dr. Watson would know more than he cared to soon enough. As Lestrade's eyes met those of the detective, something passed between them that Watson could only guess at for the time being.

~o~o~o~

Holmes stood outside the offices of Scotland Yard growling in disappointment. He had actually held some hope that the little inspector would be more accommodating. The fact that the man still held him under suspicion was bad enough. But that he couldn't take even mild criticism was just pointlessly hampering their investigation. Holmes paused as he considered this. He wondered when exactly he had taken to feeling it a shared investigation. After all, the man had been nothing short of blind thus far.

Dismissing this notion as quickly as it occurred, Holmes resumed his furious pace. He had no intentions of sharing this case with a man who would not acknowledge the truth of the situation. Instead, he would return to his original lines of inquiry with this new knowledge he had gleaned from the body. These things had only confirmed his earlier lines of investigation. In conjunction with the vague description the children had given him, he was well on his way to at least establishing a suspect. In all his research of past crimes and criminals, one thing he had learned was that repeat criminals hunted familiar territory. Now that he knew where the children had been taken and the confirmation from the dirt found on the body, he could begin there.

But, the nagging sensation that what he really wanted to find was the place the murders took place continued to nag him. There was something conflicting there. The children were taken from one place, murdered in another, and then dumped in a third. Obviously this was a native Londoner with a good knowledge of the city and its alleys. However, the patterns, though consistent, were not entirely similar. The areas from which the boys were taken were of a better class of living and business. The murders had clearly occurred along the shabby, dirty dwellings of the Thames where little more than shacks and docks existed. Then, the dumped bodies had been deliberately left in the East End.

The transportation alone would be difficult. He let his mind turn these thoughts over as he made his way back to Montague. The blistering air of the July afternoon did little to help in his thinking processes as he observed the people coming and going all around him. Often he wondered what crimes these people kept secret. But the idea that this man was hunting children and could be walking right beside him disturbed him. He could not fathom the mind that would inflict such mindless cruelty on a helpless child. And, even more disturbing, was the fact that he'd begun to suspect more than one man.

One had the appearance and all the indications of someone of a higher class of society than those usually found in either the murder location or the East End. The other clearly knew his way around the darker places of this city. Gradually he formulated a theory that would suit this contradiction. Likely, the one man was securing the children, while the other committed the actual murder. Yet, even that didn't fit; for it was most likely that the gentleman the children described was the one committing the acts, as he would have the skill with the needle. But, what part did this other player have in the scheme? Was he just paid to dump the body?

The scowl Holmes wore then as these thoughts and so much more chased themselves around his mind had people along the sidewalks quickly dodging out of his way. His meandering steps hadn't taken him very far from the Scotland Yard offices when somebody even more distracted than himself pulled him out of his contemplations in a most abrupt manner. Holmes found himself staring at a tall, thin fellow in a similarly undignified position on the sidewalk as others carefully stepped around them with little more than a curious glance.

"My apologies, sir!" the man exclaimed, quickly scrambling to his feet to offer Holmes a hand. "I was not—"

"You were on your way to deliver a package to Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard," Holmes calmly announced, ignoring the man's offer of help as he rose to his full height, only an inch or two above the man's red face. "If it is a new suit, he is in desperate need, I must say. However, your skills leave something to be desired. Or, perhaps, it is simply his taste in attire."

The man's dark, glinting eyes flared briefly at these insults. "Giles' clothing is none of your concern, whoever you are. Off with you!"

Holmes sneered as the man waved him off before continuing his hurried trek back in the direction from which Holmes had just come. However, something about the man's retreating back sparked a thought. For a moment he resumed his own walk with more purpose, so as not to draw further attention from onlookers. Once he had established his obvious route, he quickly ducked int an alley and circled around. Finding a safe, relatively comfortable position within view of the main doors of the Yard, he waited.

Much to his disappointment, the hours spent waiting were for nothing. Holmes growled quietly to himself, having wasted the afternoon and most of the evening in the hopes of finding that man again. Either the man had not stopped at Scotland Yard, or he had already left by the time Holmes had found his hiding spot. Despite the disappointment and wasted hours, he had had plenty of time to turn over those thoughts that had formulated and coalesced into a working theory in his mind. Sighting the inspector now leaving for the night, Holmes decided to change tactics. He could almost smile as he plotted his next manuverings.

~o~o~o~

As the inspector and the detective met gazes, Watson took in many things. There was something almost physical about the tension for several seconds that made him fear an explosion. However, Holmes nodded once, and visibly relaxed as he moved to close the door behind himself. Lestrade's finely wrinkled face did not relax in the slightest. For his part, though somewhat at a loss, Watson was relieved to see that Holmes had calmed considerably in the intervening hours. What would take place next, he knew would not be pleasant for any of them.

Watson handed around his sketches and details of all he had learned. The fact that Matthew had been alive during the initial mutilation starting with his fingers had both sickened and horrified him. He had intended to spare Holmes this much, but was not entirely surprised when the detective leveled a gray-eyed glare at him that clearly told him to stop being shy about it. Of course, that was just before he set aside the sketches and detailed Watson's findings back to him as if having already memorized the report.

"Exactly the same," Lestrade confirmed.

"No, Inspector," Holmes countered quickly, seeming lost in thought. "Matthew is far older than his previous victims. And, there is the addition of the note and the...message left for me. These are targeted."

"But there is no doubt that the rest is the same. These were never in the newspapers because no one cared," Lestrade said pointedly, not flinching away from Holmes' glare at this reminder of their early relationship. "You know that as well as I do."

Though Watson caught something there in that exchange, he doubted he would ever receive and answer from either Lestrade or Holmes. Still having very little to go on, he was left making his own deductions as the two continued speaking as if he were not even present. This was not the first time, nor would it be the last. He had grown accustomed to these kinds of exchanges from Holmes. He never bothered to interrupt, knowing the detective would fill him in on the missing details where and when he found it necessary to do so. Pestering the man, especially in these circumstances, was likely to produce nothing more than some biting remarks about where he was needing to spend his time. Then again, as Holmes' face colored slightly in barely contained anger, he was reminded that being an invisible presence had its uses.

"He is dead!" Holmes snapped, quivering angrily. "We both saw him, Lestrade. Yet I refuse to believe this is a copy. It is too precise, and now too targeted as well."

"I was the one who handled the original investigation," Lestrade reminded him, sitting back with a tired sigh. "Your name was never in any of the paperwork then. The only one that could have known was Patrick."

"He is—"

"I think it's safe to assume we are looking at someone more accustomed to working with cloth than human flesh," Watson finally cut in, sensing the growing frustration at talking themselves in circles. "It is not unreasonable to assume that this is both a copy and not."

Having broken his silence reminding them that he was present, Watson only barely managed to restrain a sigh as he found himself pinned to his chair by two angry glares.

"An apprentice, or a child, perhaps?" Watson prompted, hoping to bow out of the conversation beyond this point.

Both parties seemed to pause to consider this before Holmes' eyes returned with renewed admiration, and no small amount of returned self-control. He had only moments ago proven his point, highly strung emotions clouded his thinking. And, without Watson, he likely would have torn himself to pieces mentally before even reaching this possible conclusion. Watson waved off this his glance of gratitude with quick nod.

"Someone perfectly capable of copying the stitches to perfection, who might be aware of what was happening when he was younger."

"Or_ she_," Watson added.

Two sets of eyebrows, one dark the other peppered with gray, shot up at this suggestion. This was the part of his experience as a surgeon he disliked giving in detail. However, his knowledge of human anatomy from living creatures and not just dead gave him a perspective neither could hope to understand.

"The stitches are most definitely not surgical, nor even attempted to masquerade as such," Watson continued, as if trying to grasp something he was only just beginning to realize himself as he stared at one of his own sketches. "They are clearly meant for cloth of some type. They were a lockstitch in every place upon the body. But they were a continuous type more often used in a double-layered lockstitch for clothing of a heavier quality; not unlike leather. Which, in this case is a grotesquely accurate attempt. But it is still not exact. The second layer over the original stitches was incomplete. It is as if the person never used leather or worked with heavier materials. The hand is neat and deft, obviously experienced, but lacking in some dexterity. A woman's hands roughed by hard work, or afflicted with rheumatism would also explain such."

"But they're exactly the same..." Lestrade mused.

"I would not know unless I could view the piercing of the skin on the previous victims. I would, however, venture a guess that these are not quite as accurate as the previous stitching; despite the initial appearance of identical spacing, locking, and tying."

Holmes nodded with approval before taking some time to consider this himself. Certain now that he had been correct in his belief that the original perpetrator was dead, he now set his mind to alternatives he had not previously considered. The rest of their little meeting produced nothing more of interest beyond something of a refresher of the current circumstances. As annoyed as Watson was with this lack of information gleaned from the two, he was by this point, too weary to care. After the events of the day, he just wanted to go home and spend some time with Emily. Eventually Holmes called the meeting to an end in his own usual fashion by tossing some rather unpleasant remarks at the inspector and marching out. Watson offered his own apologetic shrug that Lestrade shrugged off before returning to the perusal of his own thoughts and case files.


	5. Tuesday's Child Part I

**Tuesday's Child**

**Part One**

For a week Holmes ran himself in circles. Watson had not seen this level of frantic activity from his friend in some time. Initially, Watson had held some hope that either Holmes or Lestrade would fill him in on the details of the original case from so long ago. At best, he could guess it was a series of murders involving children of lesser social status—not unlike the Irregulars—that nobody would miss. Though this made sense, he had so many more unanswered questions of a more personal nature he wished one or the other would address. But, it had not taken more than the first day and night to inform him that he would soon have much greater concerns than unanswered questions.

These last two years since they had returned to their now conjoined homes here on Baker Street, Holmes had been an almost perfectly behaved human being when around Emily. That first night after Matthew's murder he had reverted almost completely back to the flatmate Watson had known in the years before Reichenbach Falls. He alternated between tearing apart the sitting room with his books, papers, case files, and other detrius to wailing on his violin and pacing frantically. He refused food altogether and only drank what Watson put in his hand. The cloud of smoke that hazed the sitting room had Watson once again on the verge of commenting about the man's less healthy habits.

However, it only required one glance into those now darkened gray eyes to know that this was more than the fervor for finding another killer. This was more than just a personal case, to Holmes. This was much, much more than the desperate need to stop another from being harmed.

This was his grief.

He had never seen his friend mourn before. As he sat in his fireside chair remaining as a constant, silent witness to his friend's grief, he could not help feeling the need to do more. Though he desperately wanted to know more about the original case that might even help them, he did not dare tread that dangerous territory when his friend needed nothing more than the silent support of his companionship. He had shared many experiences with his dear friend and partner over the years, but this was something completely different. Watson knew that such a self-contained individual as Holmes was likely to experience his own grief in stages that likely would not fully manifest until after the closing of the case.

For now, he was angry.

There was a cold, calculating anger that fairly radiated through the sitting room even on the warmest afternoons. He treated Watson's presence with little more than cold indifference. Lestrade he treated with contempt, as if some old hurt had resurfaced that he would not speak aloud. Lestrade, for his part snapped back with verbal volleys of his own that Watson felt were almost unwarranted. He tried to treat both his friends with patience, but even that was wearing thin.

In some ways it was no easier on himself or his daughter. Emily he kept away from Holmes and the sitting room entirely, though she would come to visit Mrs. Hudson from time to time. Watson regretted the loss of time with his daughter, and their disrupted routines. But he had been forced to all but move into the sitting room as the days passed. He would not leave Holmes alone in this state. And, if the pattern of behavior continued, it was only inevitable that he would collapse from either exhaustion, starvation, or a combination of the two.

The only thing he could truly be thankful for in all of this was the fact that his friend had not returned to one old habit that had been a source of contention. Despite his racing thoughts and need for even artificial energy, Holmes had not once stopped by an apothecary or asked for more than the occasional headache powder.

On the Tuesday morning following Matthew's murder, Watson found himself retrieving a powder from his bag for himself as Holmes' activities had kept him up all the previous day and most of the night. Though the strain was wearing on him, he would not give in should his friend need him for more than a watchful presence. Whatever Holmes had managed to uncover in this amount of time, he had not bothered to share with his partner. As Holmes stormed from one end of the sitting room to another this morning, still ignoring his food, Watson found himself hard pressed not to drug the man into a stupor. Maybe then he could accomplish three things: Forcing Holmes to eat, answer his questions, and sleep.

When Mrs. Hudson returned for the breakfast tray, she carried with her a single envelope that had Holmes tearing across the room to snatch it from her hand before she could even explain.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Watson grated out, resisting the urge to chastise Holmes for his behavior.

Though she sniffed at Holmes in annoyance, she flashed Watson a reassuring grin to let him know she did not take it personally. Before he had a chance to even turn away, however, Holmes was growling in a way that did not bode well for the rest of their day. When Watson eyed the missive in Holmes' hand, that hand quickly disappeared along with the envelope, leaving Watson in no doubt what it contained.

"Another?"

Those gray eyes flared dangerously for a moment as he eyed Watson with a level of scrutiny that almost made him snap right there. Reigning in his impatience he instead quoted the next line of the nursery rhyme.

"Tuesday's child is full of grace."

Holmes almost visibly flinched, before returning his attention to the paper in his hand. He handed over the envelope instead. That hand trembled ever so slightly; though whether it was anger or something else, Watson could not tell. Flipping over the half-ripped envelope, he instantly understood.

DR. JOHN WATSON

His eyebrows shot up as he found Holmes still silently watching him.

"Holmes—"

"I know. You were not part of the original investigation."

"And I seriously doubt I fit the criteria in any case," Watson added, attempting to inject some levity to the situation. "After all, the last one was addressed to you, and you were not the killer's actual target."

"Emily..."

The look of absolute terror behind those carefully controlled features tugged at his heart. He was no less concerned, and had already considered this possibility.

"No one knows of her, Holmes. But, even if they did, they could not know her real birthday anymore than we did until a few days ago. She is safe. And, I've made arrangements for her with Mrs. Forrester."

Holmes' eyebrows shot up at that statement. He was only just now realizing how much time had actually passed. How long had Watson been there? Though he was relieved to know that Emily would be safely removed from London, he did not like the idea that this changed the original expectation he had been holding of this new killer's actions. He had thus far managed to uncover little beyond the fact that the original suspect was indeed dead, along with all known family members. That left only an unknown apprentice he had been unable to uncover. From his memories, he did not recall there ever being an apprentice, male or female. And he still refused to accept that a woman would or could perpetrate an act of such cruelty.

Suddenly feeling the entire week's worth of activity and malnourishment catching up with him, Holmes practically collapsed in on himself right there in his desk chair. Watson was, of course, correct. He, himself, did not fall into the category, but there was no doubt it would be someone close to Watson. Emily was the first that came to mind, but there could easily be others. Though he thought he knew every inch of Watson's life, there was his professional life to consider.

Watson, seeing Holmes' curling into his chair as if curling in on himself and away from the demands of his body, rubbed at his temples attempting to find the patience not to give in to the urge to tie him down and force feed him. Instead, he took a few of the remaining biscuits off the tea tray Mrs. Hudson had kindly left at his suggestion. He replaced the paper in Holmes' fingers.

"You will eat._ Now." _

Holmes opened his mouth to argue as Watson knelt down in front of him. The look he gave with those green eyes brooked no argument, but there was a tenderness there also that made him hesitate. This was both Dr. Watson and friend Watson.

"Holmes, listen to me," Watson said soothingly. "You've pushed yourself to your limits. You're not doing yourself—or anyone else—any good by this. I've made arrangements for Emily. She will be safely out of London today. I've already thrown in my lot with you, and that is not about to change. I know this is difficult for you, but you cannot let this consume you."

"Watson—"

"No! You are not leaving that chair until you eat something. And if you don't get some sleep afterward, I'll dose your next cup. You know I will."

Holmes' eyebrows gathered as he glared darkly. Yes, he well knew this newer version of his friend that had appeared after the trials of Riechenbach Falls and the following years would do just that. Yet the fear that stabbed in his chest as an almost physical representation of what he could not put to words was too much. His friend or someone close to him was in danger. He could not—

Heaving a sigh at seeing the various emotions and thoughts pass across his friend's face, Watson knew he'd lost. His threat, though quite sincere, had fallen short. For a moment he wracked his brain as he struggled back to his feet. His leg twinged painfully to remind him his own habits had been less than healthy of late, as the settee was not the most comfortable of places to sleep—when he slept at all.

"Just..." Watson's voice trailed off as another idea struck him. Turning back to Holmes, he said, "Why don't you tell me the details of the previous murders while I work on a list of possible victims?"

Holmes blinked. The idea that Watson could be of any real use beyond the initial autopsy performed on Matthew had not really occurred to him. The fact that he had not yet told his partner of the events that had taken place before they had met struck him profoundly. His face flushed slightly as he realized just how badly he had neglected his friend this past week or so.

"My apologies, Watson."

Watson waved off his apologies with a brief grin, letting Holmes know his reversion to their older partnership had not left any lingering marks upon their current one. Though Holmes was both warmed and relieved by this, he still did not like the dark shadow of uncertainty that crept into his thoughts. But, he had to admit, revisiting the case with someone's outside perspective might give him something he had missed. Watson always did have a way of asking the relevent questions that threw a new light on things.

Glancing down at the biscuits in his hand, he sighed heavily himself. He could not deny that the man was correct. He was going to mentally tear himself to pieces and eventually collapse if he did not at least follow some of the doctor's advice. Even after all these years he despised the weakness of his own body. Now having memories to focus on beyond the current case, though, he found he could at least force himself to eat this little bit to satisfy Watson. Munching slowly and sipping tea, he began his story.

~o~o~o~

Holmes had followed Lestrade from a discreet distance. After his encounter earlier that day outside the Scotland Yard offices, he was not entirely surprised when the inspector stopped at a tailor shop before heading home. What did surprise him was how little time the Yarder spent inside before reappearing with the same man from earlier that day. The way they walked down the streets side by side left no doubts in his mind that theirs was more than a simple business relationship. Though he was too far away to overhear their animated conversation, they appeared much friendlier than he would have expected.

Not very long later, several other questions were answered. As the last rays of sunlight slid beneath the level of the city's skyline, Holmes watched the two approaching a quaint house with a smaller yard and numerous children playing freely. Upon catching sight of the two men, all seven children squealed and came running gaily to meet their fathers. Two women who had been watching nearby from a shaded alcove nearby emerged to greet their husbands warmly. Holmes watched for a few minutes more before admitting defeat.

He'd learned nothing here. It had been a complete waste of time. He could not yet understand what it was about that inspector that had so caught his attention. Worse was that there was something even more deeply buried in the recesses of his mind screaming that his friend was even more important. Holmes considered the inspector and the tailor as he turned his feet back toward his original destination.

The inspector was a little, close-minded man of limited intelligence. How he had risen through the ranks of Scotland Yard was beyond Holmes' comprehension. But, having seen some of the rest of what the Yard called their own, he shouldn't be terribly surprised. He simply sensed something different about the man that set him apart from the others. And that was, perhaps, the most frustrating part of all. The fact that he could sense there was so much more to the man—that there _had_ been so much more to him—that Holmes could not see now. It was an undefined feeling with no basis in rationality or logical thinking.

Casting aside these thoughts, he focused again on the other man that had caught his attention today. The tailor.

Holmes wondered if it wasn't simply the fact that he was looking for someone with such a profession that had made the man even remotely remarkable in his mind. He had seen no other indications that there was anything more significant. He as a friend of Lestrade's. He obviously produced the items in Lestrade's current wardrobe, and perhaps that of his other family members. He had a wife and three children. He was utterly unremarkable in every sense thus far. Holmes knew little about him and cared even less.

So why would the man not stay out of his current lines of thought?

Finally arriving back at his own rooms on Montague, Holmes forced thoughts of both men out of his mind as he focused on his self-appointed task for the night. Donning a familiar disguise of a drunken beggar, he returned to the darkened streets and alleys of London in the hopes of finding the man—or men—hunting these children. And, with any luck, he would have something definite to present to the insufferable little inspector soon.

Tonight he was not disappointed.

Holmes had been prowling the areas from Piccadilly to Marylebone along with Wiggins' little group in the hopes of spotting the man taking the children. Against his initial wishes, Wiggins had gone ahead and recruited every child known to live on those streets. Even Holmes could not guess the numbers. But the one thing he had shared with the man who had employed them was an auditory system of alerts. Unlike more complex systems such as Morse Code, the irregulars used a combination of more natural sounds. The hissing, growling, barking, whistles, and more of various wildlife that shared these streets and alleys was quite clever. Holmes had been more than a little impressed with Wiggins and the system he created and employed so every group of children could keep up with each other's movements and status without ever giving away their presence. Unless one was listening closely to the sounds of the night, they would miss the sound of a cat's yowl being passed from block to block and back again. The different sounds changed meaning every night, so no one would know what each meant unless they had been passed the word.

Tonight it was the barking of a dog that would signal an intruder matching the description of the man taking the children. Pretending to stumble drunkenly down an alley near Oxford, he scraped his elbow most painfully on the wall as barking emerged not three blocks away. Never doubting the frantic not he heard, he took off through the shadows at top speed. He rounded the corner of the alley just as the screaming began. The tall figure of a man dressed in a dark, nice suit caught his attention at the same moment the figure fled the other end of the alley chased by several smaller figures. He called out orders to report in to Wiggins and spread the word to hide as he chased the figure.

Much to Holmes astonishment, the man was frighteningly fast. Not only did he know this area of the city just as well as any of the children he had been stalking, he obviously knew where the constables on patrol tended to sit for the night. Holmes growled in frustration, but refused to allow the man to get away as they successfully avoided notice by anyone that could have helped in the pursuit. With every minute that passed, Holmes became more determined than ever to catch this fleeing figure.

Holmes was not sure how long the chase continued, but he was no longer in any doubt that the man was heading in a circuitous route toward Kensington. As they approached Park Lane he finally had his chance. The man had stumbled in some trash to bounce roughly off the corner of a building. This had slowed him just enough for Holmes to tackle him. Though of similar build, Holmes was in no doubt that he possessed the greater strength.

This availed him not at all, however, when the two rolled over a few times bruisingly in the middle of Park Lane. Having tackled the man from behind, he was unable to see his face. But, before either of them could wrestle their positions around, the sound of pounding hoofbeats and horrified shouting alerted them to their present circumstances. In a reflexive action bordering on panic, Holmes pushed away from the man and rolled into the gutter. The wheels of the cab brushed past the trailing ragged edges of his jacket. The realization of how close he'd just come to horrifying injuries or death did not bother him in the least.

He turned his head just in time to catch sight of the man disappearing in another alley across the street. In an instant, Holmes was up from the gutter and attempting to follow when his ankle decided it had had enough abuse for one night. He had not even realized it was injured until he found himself sitting most unceremoniously on the sidewalk. Cursing his luck, and the luck of the sick man he'd been chasing, he again attempted to give chase when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder forcing him back to a seated position with a muttered oath.

This late at night, there were few people about in this area. However, it would be Holmes' luck that the constable he had hoped to find several blocks previously during this chase, just happened to appear when least needed. Until that moment, Holmes did not realize that the entire scene had been witnessed. As the constable railed angrily regarding a beggar assaulting a gentleman in the streets, Holmes planted his face in his hands. For the second time in a month, Holmes found himself a guest of Scotland Yard's gaols.

~o~o~o~

Having talked until his mouth was dry, Holmes paused to pour himself yet another cup of coffee. By this point the two had moved to the more comfortable seats beside the empty fireplace as they smoked their pipes. Watson listened with undisguised interest as Holmes related little more than bare facts. However, he had sensed there was far more to the story than Holmes had thus far related.

As Holmes returned to his seat, Watson's eyes gleamed at him. Only then did Holmes realize he had just related a part of his past he had not intended. He had been so lost in the exploration of those memories that he hadn't really paid that much attention to what he was saying. Frowning slightly, he sipped his coffee.

"Second time, Holmes?" Watson prompted, failing to restrain the grin that escaped around his mustache.

At the previous point in the story where he was relating his first meeting with Wiggins, his thoughts had still been more in the present than in the past. In his usual fashion, he had skimmed over most of that part with little more than facts. Now realizing his slip, his face colored somewhat in having to backtrack and explain how he'd also come to know Lestrade in their first encounter through the door of a gaol. Despite the circumstances that had led to the telling of this whole tale, even Holmes had to appreciate the humor from Watson's perspective.

Thankfully, even after all these years, his friend had little cause to explore Holmes' early days as the world's only private consulting detective. Briefly, Holmes wondered what Watson would think of some of his lone adventures before they had met. Likely, much of the respect he'd earned in those early days that held true even now would be rather tarnished. And, if not, it would still give his dear friend a great deal more than Norbury to remind him of those moments when his performances were less than stellar.

Nonetheless, he resumed his tale hoping to bring the focus back to what he felt was important.

~o~o~o~

That night, Holmes had spent his time going over every detail of his encounter with the man he was certain was responsible for at least the taking of the children. He was still convinced that another person entirely had been committing the actual acts of violence. At one point, the rather stifling air of the gaol had him pacing restlessly with his thoughts. Already he had removed as much of the layers of disguise as he dared. But, as the heat was growing rather uncomfortable, even for him, he removed the shredded remains of his jacket. There, he spotted a darker patch that did not resemble the rest. Coated in horse dung and other muck from the gutter in which he had lain momentarily, it clearly did not match any of the other patches.

Exercising much care, he removed the piece of cloth. It had been torn from the jacket of the man he had pursued. Likely, during the scuffle in the street, it had torn loose completely. Recalling the seconds before he tackle the tall, lean figure he clearly remembered the man scraping against the corner wall of the building. It had probably been torn loose then, and come off completely to stick to his own jacket when they were rolling in the street.

Holmes muttered curses under his breath at the lack of light as he attempted to glean all he could from the piece of fabric. Beyond the crusting of mud and filth, he could tell very little for now. Tucking it away in a pocket for later inspection, he continued his musings through the night.

As expected, his requests for Lestrade produced very little the next morning. He had no doubts the man was presently in his office, but refusing to see him. All the constables would reply to his inquiries with the same, monotonous replies that the inspector was a busy man and had better things to do than entertain a beggar caught molesting an upstanding citizen of London. Finally reduced to what he was sure many of them considered little more than parlor tricks, he was able to convince at least one of the less intelligent ones that there was something worth disturbing the little inspector.

Though Lestrade would not see him, personally, the constant harassment after that did eventually lead to his release. Despite the testimony of the constable, no one had come forward as of yet to claim injury or theft against Holmes. Growling angrily to himself, Holmes was further inclined to plot some petty revenge against the stubborn man when he was marched unceremoniously out the door and told not return. Only barely restraining from throwing curses back at the dullard, Holmes turned to stomp away down the street when he caught sight of Wiggins.

Heaving a sigh, Holmes updated the boy and assured him this matter was far from over. Agreeing to meet later in the evening in his rooms on Montague, Holmes resumed his previously interrupted trek. Before he had a chance to get very far, though, he found himself quickly falling into the role of beggar once again skulking in a nearby alley as he spotted Lestrade and his friend heading their direction. After yesterday's disastrous meeting and today's infuriating display of his superiority, he had no intentions of facing Lestrade in the guise of a beggar.

"...nothing, Giles. You and Cee should be..."

Whatever else Lestrade's friend was saying was completely lost on Holmes. His mind seized on the one thing that had caught his undivided attention. Only now, as the man turned slightly to the side and away from the inspector to dodge a man hustling by them did Holmes catch sight of the dark colored sling that held the man's left arm. Again Holmes' mind seized as he had a vision of the previous night's chase. As they walked right past his hiding spot in the shadows, Holmes found himself gripping that piece of cloth that had been in his pocket.

His heart began to thump almost painfully fast in his chest as he realized just what he was thinking. His racing thoughts left him blind and deaf to all else around him. The doubts that plagued his mind were quickly and easily countered by every other analytical thought. It chilled him to even consider the possible consequences. But, in his mind, this could not be a coincidence. The idea that a friend and neighbor of a respected Scotland Yard inspector...

Suddenly so many things made so much sense. He stared at the piece of cloth in his hands. There was one row of neat stitches running diagonally through the cloth. Even in the bright sunshine, he could not see enough to be certain. He had to clean it and inspect it more closely. But, now he would have a possible match. If stitching style matched even remotely to that of the corpse, he would know he had his first real evidence. If the stitching on the cloth and the corpse matched those found on Lestrade's own clothing, he would have proof.

If he accused a Scotland Yard inspector in charge of a murder case of aiding a killer, even with evidence to match the facts...

Holmes shuddered visibly. Perhaps it was time to seek out his brother's advice. Suddenly, that offer of becoming a mindless government minion did not seem so very unappealing as it had a few weeks ago.


	6. Tuesday's Child Part II

**Tuesday's Child**

**Part Two**

"Lestrade?" Watson asked incredulously.

Holmes nodded soberly before reaching for his slipper of tobacco. "Yes. Having no prior knowledge of the man, it was a frightening enough conclusion. Thankfully, for both of us, I was presented an opportunity that would both clear him and condemn the...kidnapper."

"Kidnapper! But you just said..." Watson trailed off, quickly processing this change in labels. "You believed he was only taking the children and Lestrade was committing the actual murders."

Again Holmes nodded, paying more attention to his own memories once again than his pipe or his friend. His voice was somewhat distant as his thoughts turned more inward.

"The logical conclusion was that they were working together."

~o~o~o~

Still in something of a daze over these revelations, Holmes finally made his way back to the rooms he currently called home on Montague. As he turned over these horrifying and dangerous thoughts all the way to his destination, he could not help feeling a sense of impending doom. Somewhere in this tumult of thoughts, he knew this was not going to end well. If he was extraordinarily lucky, he would spend a great deal of time in a gaol when things turned sour. If he was unlucky, he would be spending the few hours of his remaining life after testing these theories in a great deal of pain. Suddenly, his view of these little rooms seemed a lot more comforting than he could ever remember; rotting walls and sagging roof included.

After divesting himself of his disguise and thoroughly removing the filth of the previous night's activities, he felt a little more himself. Having regained that much of his composure, putting together a means of testing his theories seemed far more plausible. Escaping all of this both alive and a free man seemed more remote, but he was not about to back down. Either he would have to outwit them, or catch them in the act.

Having already verified in the light of his lamp that the stitching was indeed nearly identical to that of the corpse he'd inspected less than a day ago, he no longer had any doubts. The man who had taken the children was also involved in the reconstruction of the body afterward. His hand had been the one to sew the parts back on. And, already, Holmes had all but proven he was the man taking the children. Yet, there was still a sense of wrongness in all of this. As if two entirely different people were involved. Holmes still could not picture that same man hacking apart the bodies one part at a time.

Nor could he see Lestrade committing such a deranged act.

Holmes paced from one end of his little room to another until the neighbors pounded the walls demanding a stop. Still he continued to pace. Thus far his only real evidence was that piece of cloth. Though he could use the stitches—and probably even the thread—to that found on the body, he could not even provide a description of the man he had chased and tackled the night before. He had not caught the man with a child in his arms, and the children's testimony would be less than worthless. Even the injury to the man's elbow that had his arm in a sling could be purely coincidental, or otherwise explained away.

He needed evidence.

With a last, decisive turn of his feet across the carpet, Holmes made up his mind. Writing a letter only his brother would understand, he sealed away the piece of evidence. Taking up an entirely different disguise, Holmes readied himself for the night's work. His first stop was Wiggins. Giving his instructions and reminding them to stay safe, above all, he made his way back to Lestrade's. In a residential neighborhood such as this, maintaining a disguise and a good vantage point to watch the two residences was difficult. But, shortly after dark, Holmes managed this feat.

He was not surprised that there was no activity tonight. The man responsible for securing the children was now far more wary. His last encounter had not ended well. And, now he was well aware that there was at least one person attempting to track his movements. On top of this, he was injured. All of this combined led Holmes to believe he would likely be in for a long wait.

He was not disappointed.

When no body was found lying about the city waiting for the inspector, he had half expected the man to come looking for him. Why that was, he could not be certain. But Lestrade only seemed to go about his business as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. The fact that the man either did not notice the change in schedules or had deliberately ignored it only further confirmed Holmes' suspicions that the inspector was indeed involved.

Yet, as the nights passed one after another and Holmes continued to watch the two houses, he again began to wonder about his doubts. The sling came off and still the man did not make any late night excursions. Lestrade and his family also seemed perfectly content and secure in their routines. And, the longer Holmes watched, the less likely he found that two such devoted husbands and fathers could be responsible for such horrifying acts of cruelty and murder. For all Holmes had researched in the last several years, he just could not reconcile these men with his image of serial killers of the worst kind.

However, his reports from Wiggins continued to come in steadily. Every day that passed was another without a missing or murdered child. Holmes could not let himself relax and doggedly continued his vigil.

On the seventh night of his vigil, he was at last rewarded. Though both houses remained dark, the shadow of a movement in the doorway of the tailor's house caught his attention. The man walked purposefully out of the house and down the street. Both arms swung in a manner that somehow seemed different to Holmes, but he really didn't have time to consider it for very long. Doing his utmost to remain unseen in this neighborhood while following the man proved more difficult than he anticipated.

He followed the man's rambling walk east toward Paddington. Gradually that walk grew less rambling and more purposeful, though it was even more meandering than previously. It took Holmes less than three blocks to figure out that the man was checking the alleys. Though he only gave them the briefest of glances, there was no mistaking that deliberately circuitous route. Block by block he was working his way closer and closer to Marylebone in a north-westerly direction into territory with which Holmes had become familiar, but Wiggins and his little band knew far better. He could almost wish he had one of those children with him now as he alternated between keeping to the shadows and trying not to lose the man leading him further and further.

Then, just as suddenly as this trek began, the man froze. Cursing the ill-timed luck, Holmes heard what had also caught the man's attention. One of the children was doing their hourly call. Unfortunately, that particular growling hiss sounded nothing like a cat to Holmes' ears. However, as the man began to walk down the alley, Holmes was glad to hear the next sound was of a rat's squealing that sounded a bit more realistic. The squealing was the intruder alert of the night, and Holmes wasted no time in dropping any pretense of disguise.

Rounding the corner of the building, he did not even slow his steps as he charged down the alley toward the taller figure inspecting the shadows of the box and crate lined alley. Hearing Holmes' approach, the man again turned it into a chase down countless London streets. Holmes did not intend to give him a chance. Using the brief moment of surprise to his advantage, Holmes closed the gap between the two. Grabbing the man by the collar of his jacket, he pulled him up short.

Despite the countless hours spent in training himself in hand-to-hand combat of various types, nothing could have prepared him for the ferocious attack that followed. Though the man had practically been yanked off his feet, he twisted in Holmes' grip so fast he did not have a chance to block the knife. The blade gleamed brightly in the light of the lamp a heartbeat before it scored a burning trail across his chest. Holmes could not prevent the cry of pain and surprise that escaped his lips as the man twisted and attempted to gain enough room to stab instead of slash randomly.

Only then did Holmes realize that his continued grip on the back of that suit jacket was the one thing preventing the man from doing worse. Almost as soon as this realization struck him, the man very nearly twisted out of his grip. In a single, fluid motion Holmes threw his upper body backward and used his free hand to grip the wrist with the knife. Entirely off balance, he only barely registered the impact of the cobbles on his back as they landed with the attacker on top. His entire being was now focused on the knife inching closer toward his throat while the other kept its grip on the jacket that kept the man's upper body twisted just slightly off. The man's free arm was now twisted and pinned between them.

Unfortunately, this gave the man the advantage of maneuverability for his lower body. Before Holmes could react, a knee impacted his groin in an explosion of pain that very nearly had him retching. Even as his vision blurred, he stiffened the muscles in his arms and hands to maintain his grip. As he was preparing himself mentally for a second, such blow in this almost stalemate, the weight was suddenly removed. In a sudden, violent thrashing motion, the man released the knife and wriggled successfully out of the jacket. Only when he could hear the retreating footsteps a second later did Holmes return to his surroundings enough to hear the multitude of younger voices all around him.

"Stop!" Holmes managed to croak as he caught sight of some of the older ones giving chase.

For a heartbeat, he thought they weren't going to listen to him. But, apparently, they had grown accustomed to taking orders; even if not from himself, directly. He curled in on his wounded parts for a moment gasping for air as he gave a silent thank you to Providence that they had listened. He would not have been able to forgive himself had one of those children been hurt or taken; especially when it was his life they had very likely just saved.

He had no idea where Wiggins was currently patrolling, and he didn't really care. Before any of them had a chance to argue, he barked his orders to report to Wiggins and resume their positions. Not even taking the time to thank them, he grabbed both the suit jacket and the knife. An insane plan had just formulated itself in his mind. This much evidence was not nearly enough, but it was a start. Ignoring the blood seeping through his clothes and down the front of his torso, he resumed his mad dash back toward the west. In a far more direct route than he had taken before, he prayed he was not too late.

Light-headed and no longer thinking beyond this one task, Holmes found himself stumbling as he approached Lestrade's door. He knew that if he was wrong, he was handing himself to a murder. If he was right, and his instincts had not betrayed him completely, he was about to turn the life and beliefs of one Scotland Yard inspector inside out tonight. The breath heaving in and out of his burning lungs, Holmes pounded desperately on Lestrade's door. He wasn't sure how long he had been doing so, when he legs finally folded beneath him. Seconds later the door cracked open and he could only stare stupidly at the image of Lestrade with his gun in nothing more sinister than a dressing gown.

The relief that flooded him at this sight made him giddy. Or perhaps that was blood loss and exhaustion. Whatever it was, Holmes found himself smiling openly up at the confused inspector. The man's expression transformed from confusion, to anger, to concern upon spying the frightening amount of blood now soaking through Holmes' clothing. Before he had a chance to speak, however, Holmes held up the knife and the jacket as if presenting a prize.

"What the devil are you doing, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade growled, yanking the jacket out of his hands.

Finally having regained enough of his breath and scattered thoughts, Holmes tried to pull himself to his feet. "I think that would be obvious even to you, Inspector."

Seeing Holmes struggling to find support on the wall beside the door, Lestrade dropped the jacket to reach toward the taller man. "Now just one minute—"

"Look at it, Inspector!" Holmes growled, forcing his body to comply with his demands. "This is the second time I've chased and caught the man taking those children."

For a moment, Lestrade seemed confused and even somewhat taken aback by Holmes' vehemence. After visually ensuring for himself that Holmes was not going to collapse again right there on his doorstep, Lestrade gingerly took up the jacket. His heart nearly stopped at the sight. He knew that jacket; quite well, actually. Anger flared then that this young man would have the audacity to assault his friend. Aiming the gun directly at Holmes' chest, Lestrade only barely reigned in his temper.

"What have you done to Patrick?" he growled menacingly.

Fearing he had made a mistake afterall, Holmes took in the lines of fury creasing Lestrade's face. "Inspector—"

"If he's hurt, I'm warning you—"

"This is _his_ knife! My blood!" Holmes snapped back, opening his jacket and exposing the blood-soaked waistcoat. "He attacked me when I caught him attempting to escape the alley! Even a someone as blind as yourself can see that there are no—"

"You're lying," Lestrade said, suddenly far calmer than Holmes cared to see at this time.

"Inspector Lestrade," Holmes started, trying to moderate his own voice, "if you do not believe me, knock on his door."

"I'm not about to wake Jane and the—"

Ignoring the gun aimed at his chest, Holmes motioned for silence, thankful beyond words for the continued darkness in which they stood. Lestrade had not dared to light a lamp when expecting to have to confront a potential threat at his door. Confused, Lestrade let his words trail to silence as Holmes pointed his attention toward the man now making his way back up the street in full light of the lamps. Minus his jacket, they both spied Patrick Richardson approaching the little gate to his front yard.

Ready to put an end to this and rid himself of this annoyingly arrogant man on his doorstep in the middle of the night, Lestrade lowered his gun as he called out to his friend. He would be more than happy to return to the Yard tonight with the young upstart if it meant he'd never have to deal with him beyond giving testimony to the assault and evidence the idiot had provided him. Though Holmes attempted to prevent him calling out, Lestrade shouted loudly, shattering the otherwise still night air.

At first the man froze, eyeing his friend in the darkened doorway. Ignoring Holmes, Lestrade stepped out into the yard as if to meet his friend at the fence. Patrick himself took a couple of curious steps himself, though Holmes could read the fear and tension in every movement.

"Giles? What are you doing up? Are you and Cee alright?" Patrick finally called back as they approached one another.

Apparently something alerted the inspector that there was more going on here than just a late night stroll, though Holmes could not tell what exactly that had been. Even as he was stepping out of the shadow of the doorway to follow Lestrade, the gun came up to aim directly at the tailor.

"Giles?"

"What have you done?" Lestrade asked in a voice filled with horror and disbelief.

Even as he opened his mouth to spew what Holmes was sure to be some further lie, Patrick spotted him approaching. Those eyes flashed dangerously for one heartbeat as his features twisted into a rage-filled mask. Before Holmes could warn the inspector, a hand shot out to knock the gun away. The sudden motion tightened Lestrade's finger on the trigger. Though the bullet went wide, Patrick wasted no time in bolting back across the yard and down the street. Holmes was already out on the sidewalk and resuming his chase without ever thinking of what to do next. All he knew at this point was that something had made the inspector suspicious enough to question his friend.

Holmes knew that after the exertions of the night, the amount of blood he'd lost, and the lead the man had there was no hope of catching him. He only dimly recognized the fact that Lestrade had joined in the chase, as he could hear the man's bare feet behind him slapping the pavement. However, he was not about to give up without at least trying. Forcing his body beyond his already stretched limits, Holmes' allowed his vision to narrow to that of the darkly dressed figure ahead of him. All else ceased to exist as his heart felt it was going to burst in his chest.

He could not venture a guess how long this chase lasted, though he did not suspect too terribly long. All he knew next was that the man had left the alleys to run straight into an open road. The carriage that had been moving at a relatively sedate pace never stopped as the horses hooves trampled right over the screaming man and then kept going far more hurriedly. Holmes skid to a stop in horror at the sight of the body lying motionless in the street. Somewhere in the back of his mind he became very cold with the certainty that he was responsible for this man's death. Whatever crimes he had committed, the idea that he had just—

The sudden impact of another body against his own rocked him out of these thoughts a heartbeat before the pavement knocked all thoughts out of his head completely. The bursts of color blinded him for a moment as he came to the realization that it was Inspector Lestrade who had tackled him. For one moment, he battled the gray fog that danced around the edges of his vision as he opened his eyes to find blood pouring from the head of the man he had been chasing. His stomach did an unpleasant turn when he realized that the warm, sticky substance now coating his cheek was from that same body. He did not have a chance to react to this, however, before the sudden inhalation of air into his burning lungs had him lying there senseless. Only then did he finally hear Lestrade's concerned voice and the sounds of a retreating cab.

Somewhere far away he heard Lestrade's rather colorful and inventive cursing in French. Dimly, he wondered if Wiggins would follow his instructions when he failed to appear. Another part of him very sincerely regretted not having done more with his short career. He had no doubts that even if he did wake from this, he would not be seeing the light of day again for some time. Lestrade would have him hauled off, and—sooner or later—he would have to face his brother. He did not regret the fact that he had done what he thought was right. He just hoped Mycroft would understand when he got the letter.

His last thought before darkness took him was again wondering why people feared death at all when there were so many worse things in life.

~o~o~o~

As Holmes' words trailed off into contemplative silence, Watson sensed there were so very many things his friend was not telling him. However, he once the story had begun, Watson knew he was unlikely to receive any details Holmes was unwilling to share. He was surprised Holmes had even admitted to having suspected Lestrade of complicity when that much had obviously proved incorrect. He doubted he would learn a whole lot more from Lestrade than he had Holmes. But, he refused to interrupt with questions that his friend would deem irrelevant; especially when he realized that this was something of a purging for his friend. Once begun, the story had fairly flown from Holmes' lips, as if he were ready to rid himself of these memories.

After several minutes of silence, he wondered if Holmes was going to continue. Sensing something in those distant gray eyes that Holmes was reliving, but not sharing, Watson disturbed the peace of those minutes long enough to pour Holmes a generous portion of brandy. Not surprisingly, the man didn't even notice the movement he was so lost in those memories. It wasn't until Watson presented the glass within his direct line of sight that Holmes returned to his present surroundings. The look of gratitude that crossed his friend's pale features alarmed him for a moment before Holmes took a healthy swallow of the amber liquid. Having regained some of his lost composure, Holmes set aside the glass and resumed his tale once more.

~o~o~o~

Holmes had woken in the hospital with enough catgut across his chest to feel like the Frankenstein monster. The stiffness and bruising he felt through a number of places in his body, including the stabbing pain throbbing in his ankle, alerted him to the fact that was still alive. Even through the foggy haze of his confused thoughts in semi-consciousness he realized that no corpse could be in that much pain.

That lead to his next almost equally incoherent thought. While still pinching his eyes tightly shut against the pain lancing its way through his eyelids, he wondered where Lestrade had gone. It took him several seconds to realize that he was no longer lying in the street, either. Something about this change in surroundings finally penetrated the fog of pain and drug-induced sleep. With the utmost care, he managed to crack open an eye to confirm for himself the smell he had already detected was that of a hospital ward.

Groaning to himself, he closed his eyes once more.

Apparently this was his day to pay for those deeds that had landed him here in the first place. He was denied the retreat into the sweet oblivion of sleep by a young woman. Shortly after this came an older man. Followed eventually by the fact that he was awake and miserable and in no mood to deal with anyone, even if they had taken it upon themselves to see to his well-being. After a bit of a struggle and some rather ugly observations, Holmes eventually managed to escape the hellish confines of that place of disease and death.

Once out on the street he had to be confronted with the even more depressing realization that he had no money for a cab. He would have to make the four and a half mile or so trek on foot. In his condition, he wondered if he would make it that far. Not having much of a choice, he turned his feet in that direction and slowly planted one foot in front of the other. His clothes were filthy, crusted in copious amounts of his own blood, and he likely looked like an escapee. He wondered briefly if he even could get a cabbie to stop for him in his current condition.

Somewhere in his vague, mental wanderings he once again realized he was alive. Miserable as he now felt, he was indeed alive and free. Forcing some semblance of order into his half-hearted thoughts, he recalled the last moments before losing consciousness. The suspect had been trampled under horses' hooves. He had been tackled most painfully by the little inspector. There had been something about a cab and lots of noise in one ear. The sticky sensation of his blood had his empty stomach turning painfully at the remembrance. He could almost remember the idea that Lestrade was a murderer and he was expecting to never wake up.

All of it was a haze of fuzziness as his body demanded his attention with ever more increasing persistence. By the time he stumbled up the steps to his rooms on Montague, he was no longer thinking at all. Random visions of blood, darkness, and pain had all but consumed him. At this point, his only desire was the comfort of seclusion within those decaying walls and the silence of oblivious sleep. He never even made it to his bed. Moments after closing the door behind himself, he felt his legs fold beneath him and he didn't bother wasting the energy to go any further.

The next sensation was a painful tugging under his arms that put more pressure on the stitches than his body felt appropriate. He attempted to resist those hands as they lay him on his back and released him to something soft under his head. Seconds later those same hands reappeared to straighten his legs as he at last recognized the voice muttering angrily at him from somewhere nearby. His sluggish thoughts seized on that voice as his gray eyes flew open.

"Inspector?" he asked, silently cursing the weakness in his voice.

"Yes," snapped Lestrade as he returned with a glass of water. "Lucky for you I was not a burglar. What the devil were you thinking leaving the hospital in this condition?"

Holmes could not quite comprehend the mixed anger and concern in the man's voice as he knelt down within view. Wary, Holmes eyed the man and his proffered glass of water. Lestrade heaved a weary sigh as he sat back and took a drink of his own from the same glass first.

"Satisfied?"

Disturbed that he had been so easily read, Holmes' face flushed slightly as he struggled to a sitting position with the help of the little inspector.

"You were to tall for me to maneuver you onto the bed without risking hurting you. Despite the rather unpleasant smell, I assumed the floor would be good enough for now considering your current state," Lestrade commented with disgust as he eyed the younger man.

Having finished the glass of water and wondering at his still present thirst, Holmes finally turned his attention to the inspector. Lestrade did not give him a chance to voice his questions.

"I was coming to see you at the hospital. They informed me of your departure," he commented drily. "I'm well aware of what you think of me, Mr. Holmes. And, under the circumstances, I don't blame you. But, what I want to know is why you came to my house. If you were so certain I was a murderer, why did you come to me?"

Still struggling just to maintain an upright position, Holmes could not find the clarity of thought to respond to these questions. Yet something in to beady dark eyes demanded an answer. Trembling with the effects of exhaustion he knew would claim him, he battled his own body while his mind gave way to thoughts he had not before allowed himself to consider.

"Because I trust you," he finally croaked in a voice trembling no less than the rest of his body. "You're a good man. Belief..."

Holmes' words trailed off as he was forced to plant a hand on the floor beside him to keep himself upright. Glaring at the floor in frustration as if it were the cause of his weakness, he avoided looking at the older man. The embarrassment of his predicament combined with the need to say what he was thinking had him shaking off the man's offer of assistance. Ultimately, this resulted in the grayness around his vision closing in around him while his mouth still moved.

When he awoke several hours later he was changed into night-clothes and settled into his own bed. It didn't take very long for him to realize how this had come about. He tried to recall what he had said or done, but could not focus beyond that gray mist in his memories. He'd been speaking to Lestrade. That much he could recall. Beyond that, there was a gray mist where thoughts and memories should have been. He had no idea what he'd said, and with the embarrassment of his weakness in that encounter, he knew he would never ask. He just hoped it wasn't anything unpleasant enough to give the man cause to come after him at a later time.

Upon struggling back into an upright position and shoving away the threadbare blanket that was covering him, he spied an envelope and some pound notes on the bedside table. A scrap of paper contained a brief message from Lestrade.

_A doctor has been called to check on you on orders from your brother. ~Lestrade_

Holmes snorted at this, though he still wondered about the money. If it was a consulting fee, he certainly didn't deserve it. If it was charity from his oh so generous elder brother, he would burn it to spite him. The envelope, addressed to him in his brother's usual, neat writing he declined to read. Whatever Mycroft had to say he didn't want to hear at this point. The entire case he had taken on for his own reasons had been an unmitigated disaster. Holmes rose long enough to satisfy the demands of his body before returning to his bed and forgetting he had ever once had a dream of a life as the world's only private consulting detective.


	7. Tuesday's Child Part III

**Tuesday's Child**

**Part Three**

That night neither Watson nor Holmes slept. Watson found himself dozing from time to time on the settee after kissing his daughter good bye. He knew she would be safe with the Forresters, but it still felt like a chasm opening in his heart to let her go. Emily had expressed both concern and excitement. While there would be children not too far from her own age with which to interact, she did not like leaving her father and Uncle Holmes. Finally, she had put on a brave face that very nearly broke his heart and changed his mind before taking Ms. Tuckfield's hand and leaving the house.

In more ways than just her safety, this was for the best. Ms. Tuckfield agreed to see her safely to the Forresters' before she would be ending her employment. In the events of the last week and more, neither he nor Holmes had spared a thought for a new governess. Despite the addition of a maid, even Mrs. Hudson would not be able to tend both houses. And, now that both the men present were in such nerve-wracking condition, there was more than enough for her to handle by herself here in the one house.

The next morning they had both gone through an extensive list of potential victims. Watson was not close to many people, much like Holmes. However, his list was considerably longer when they took into account the numerous families he considered his patients. Given that they had a week to alert all of them, though, they still held some hope of catching the murderer in the act and putting an end to all of this. By morning Holmes had his plans laid out and was ready to enact them. Scrubbing away the lingering exhaustion, Watson was not surprised to find he was actually looking forward to the normalcy and relatively sedate pace spent in his practice.

Arriving considerably earlier than was his normal routine, Watson let himself in before the maid was to even arrive. Locking the front door behind himself, he headed right for his office to refresh his memory regarding his patient list for the day. He was even hoping that after his list of appointments had been dealt with, he would have enough time left over to make some rounds elsewhere.

As if sensing something were out of place, Watson froze with his hand on the doorknob to the consulting room. Every sense on alert, he listened for any sounds around him. When he detected nothing, he backed away from the door a step and set down his bag while he retrieved the revolver he had deliberately slipped into his coat pocket at Holmes' insistence. Now he was fervently thankful he had as he continued to use his every sense to figure out what felt so out of place. Even as he reached again for the doorknob, he realized what that something was. A cold feeling of certainty settled over him as he considered what he would find in the room beyond.

His heart beating a painfully swift pace in his chest, he felt his hands steady as the familiar feeling of calm settled upon him. Deliberatly he turned the knob and flung the door open while he raised his gun with his other hand. Ignoring the corpse sprawled across his desk, he swept the room visually for any signs of the intruder. Only after nearly a minute of scrutiny in the sun-filled room did he finally lower the gun. Not taking his eye off the shadows around the furniture, he carefully made his way to the closet. Ensuring that no one else was present, he finally turned his attention to the corpse on his desk.

Watson had recognized her in an instant. That mane of long blond hair was one he'd never forget. Since childhood, it had not changed much at all. Despite the calm detachment he felt eyeing the body from the perspective of a police surgeon, he felt a deep sorrow for the loss of another one of Holmes' former Irregulars. And, one he had himself tended when she was sick and her family died of pneumonia. His heart squeezed painfully once as he took in the details at a glance. In a silent farewell and promise of justice, he turned and left his consulting room. He carved the memories of her smiling face into his soul just as the words had been carved into her flesh.

TUESDAY'S CHILD

Whatever the sinister design this murderer had against Holmes, he would now have to answer to Dr. Watson as well. Leaving a note on the door for the maid to take the day off, he stepped back out onto the street to locate a constable. Those green eyes flared dangerously as he prowled the street in the hopes of seeing an unfamiliar face watching him too closely. Though it went against his nature, he almost wished he had a target on which to focus the increasingly angry thoughts that made him consider what he would like to do to the murderer.

~o~o~o~

Shortly after Watson had left the house to attend to his practice for the day, Holmes began to dress in a familiar disguise. It would not do to appear too well-off in some of the places he planned on visiting today. Now wearing the comfortably grubby attire of a working man, he turned his attention to his morning post and the list Watson had left him. Moments later his perusal was interrupted by a nearly frantic Mrs. Hudson as she came pounding up the stairs. Not waiting for her, he threw open the sitting room door and met her on the landing.

Though he spared a few words to calm her, the telegram from Watson did little to calm his own increasing fears. It was a terse message that requested his presence since the next victim had been found. Fearing both for his friend's safety as well as his emotional status, Holmes did not waste time changing out of his current attire. He flew out the door and was on his way toward Watson's practice barely sparing a thought for those he jostled along the way.

He was relieved to find Watson standing outside his practice while several constables and Lestrade stood nearby. Watson was, apparently, giving his statement. The icy cold voice rigid with barely controlled anger and his straight-shouldered military stance told Holmes all he needed to know of his friend's condition. Despite the circumstances and another death, he felt a silent relief to know by Watson's countenance that it had not been his first fear realized. He had to forcibly remind himself that Emily was safely away with the Forresters. Though, further questions and concerns would have to wait until they were alone.

"Watson?" Holmes asked gently when his friend failed to notice him.

Those green eyes, though blazing with anger he imagined had been reflected in his own only days before, softened for a moment when he spied his friend. Holmes brow furrowed briefly as he considered what that look of empathy would mean. Obviously it had been a victim they both knew, but one Watson considered closer to Holmes. For a moment, his friend hesitated before turning his attention away from the constable that had been taking his statement. However, before he had a chance to speak, Lestrade stepped up to join them. Holmes quickly noted the increasingly weary and worn appearance of the Yarder before returning his attention to Watson.

"We've not touched anything yet, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade informed them. "Dr. Watson advised we wait for you."

Briefly Holmes considered this, especially in light of their previous reluctance.

"It's Catherine Alden," Watson offered his eyes reflecting empathy, though some uncertainty as well that Holmes could not quite place.

Already Holmes' mind had drifted to other aspects with a speed that the other two could not begin to comprehend. He accepted this with a quiet nod that had both of them eyeing him rather closely. Now he was able to place their concerns. They were wanting to determine his emotional status in the involvement in this case with the addition of this second victim. However, as it had obviously presented as a victim meant to be closer to Watson, he had more concern for his friend than for himself. Though she had once been brought into the circle of the Irregulars through the loss of her family, it had been Watson who had done so. It had also been Watson's involvement in her life that lead her to seek a profession of a medical nature.

Brushing off their concerns, Holmes stepped toward the door. There was something vastly different about this one; and not just the fact that the timeline had changed. They had not been expecting a victim before next week. Either he was trying to draw their attention for some specific purpose, or he was changing to keep them from guessing. As he took in every detail of Watson's consulting room, he noticed several other things as well.

While Matthew's date of birth was a rough guess, Catherine's was likely_ not _a Tuesday—if his memory served. Having known her parents, Watson could easily verify such. Nor was she "full of grace". As a child, she had been a sweet, shy little thing that would never have otherwise found herself in the ranks of Irregulars. Her mothering nature, however, endeared her to both the older and younger of the children. As she grew, she had been a gangly and rather uncoordinated youth. Now, in her twenties, she had taken on a fair amount of weight that only furthered the mothering image she portrayed. In Holmes' mind, she would fit in quite nicely in a country tavern or farm.

He had been so deeply exploring these thoughts and discrepancies that he failed to notice Watson's presence until a hand clasped his arm gently. Whatever concern Watson had fled those green eyes as Holmes turned his distant, calculating expression on his own. Holmes was glad to see some of the lines of worry fade, though he could tell also that Watson was struggling with something else he was not willing to share while in the company of the constables and Lestrade. This very nearly had Holmes expressing his surprise visibly on his face before he quickly suppressed it and nodded to let Watson know he understood and they would speak of it later. Instead, he turned his inspection to the rest of the room.

"She does not fit," Lestrade finally commented, obviously exasperated by this lack of understanding in these silent exchanges.

"No, she doesn't," Watson confirmed while Holmes began to inspect the rest of the room. "Let us allow him to inspect the room in peace while you give me the details of the original investigation."

Moments later, Holmes understood why Watson had been diverting Lestrade's attention and dragging him back out of the consulting room. It had only taken a few seconds to absorb all the relevant details of the body, posture, stitching, and other evidence. However, the rest of the room provided clues to both Watson's movements and the killer's. The killer had entered through the back window here on the ground floor. After breaking the window to gain entry, he had pulled the body through leaving a scraping of skin on the sill. He had not bothered to cover the body. Again, the initial act had not taken place where the body was found. The remaining evidence to this would be better uncovered with the inspection of the body.

But it was the footsteps imprinted into the carpet and the scrapings of mud and dirt that caught his attention. Easily he could separate the initial set from that of his friend's. Yet it was the movements that made no sense. The murderer's footprints had inspected nearly every inch of the little office, as if he'd spent a considerable time here. They were meandering, uneven, and showed no particular pattern of movement. It was more like he was just exploring than looking for something. But, when the footsteps reached the desk, they stopped and shifted several times. It was quite obvious he had spent a great deal of time lurking about the contents of the desk. Had he been performing some act on the body that required so much time and effort, the footsteps would have circled the desk several more times than was evident.

Was the murderer looking for more potential victims by perusing Watson's files and desk? Was he simply trying to understand the man he had chosen for no better reason than that he was partner to the detective?

Holmes could not determine for himself, just yet. He knew he needed more data. But, he sensed it was something else altogether. Watson had obviously followed these in his own previous investigation of his consulting room before leaving to locate a constable. Looking again, Holmes realized this was wrong. Watson had walked the room twice. Retracing his friend's footsteps, he now realized Watson had returned and taken a different path to his desk. Staying clear of the existing footprints, he had—at least once—inspected the contents of his desk and likely removed something.

Now burning with curiosity, Holmes exited the consulting room. He was not surprised to hear Lestrade giving a bare-bones run down of the same story he had related to Watson only the day before. He could easily detect the lines of curiosity and slight irritation in Watson's face as he detected how much they were leaving out of the story that he did not dare ask. Smiling to himself, Holmes made a mental note to fill him in some day. But, for now, the look that passed between himself and his partner confirmed there was something he was not sharing with Lestrade.

"Holmes, I will be needing to join Lestrade at Scotland Yard," Watson stated the obvious with some emphasis. "Would you be so kind as to take my bag back to Baker Street and fetch some items for me?"

"Of course, dear chap. If you would give me a list of what you need, I will bring them straightaway," Holmes volunteered.

Agreeing to meet the inspector outside, Watson pulled out his ever-present journal and pretended to write some things on the paper while he whispered softly enough that only Holmes could hear. "There is a file in my bag. It was left in my drawer, and is not mine. I did not have a chance to look at it."

"Very well, then, Doctor," Holmes stated at a normal volume, pretending Watson had simply been muttering to himself as he took the paper and the bag. "I should not be more than an hour, as I will need to change out of these."

Watson smiled, though it did not reach his eyes. "Thank you."

With that, they parted ways. For Holmes it was a matter of minutes to escape the scene with the bag in tow. His fingers itched to dig out the file, but Watson had obviously intended for the contents to be perused in private. Upon entering the foyer, he dug out the file right there. Ignoring Mrs. Hudson's questions, he flipped through the pages. In seconds he was racing to his bedroom with the file to change clothes. Though he appreciated Watson's discretion, there was no question this information would have to be shared with Lestrade.

~o~o~o~

In early August of 1880 two patients were admitted to a hospital in the late hours of the night, overseen by an Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. One was badly wounded by a knife in a fight and suffered a considerable amount of blood loss. The initial injury had been further aggravated by the lack of early treatment and obvious exertion. The second patient had suffered a number of blunt injuries caused by horses hooves. The worst of these injuries had been a blow to the head with a horseshoe that had fractured the skull. The first patient released himself the following day. The second patient was left in a bed and tended by several doctors for three days before being listed as dead. During this initial stay in the hospital, his nearly incoherent wife had come several times to visit herself.

All of this both Lestrade and Holmes had been aware of in the days following the closure of that investigation. Though Holmes had insisted he was correct, Lestrade had waited for weeks expecting more bodies to appear. When none did so, he was forced to admit that the detective had been right. Whatever his personal feelings toward the young man, he had to admit the evidence presented itself. And, despite their rough start, he had taken a swift liking to this energetic and eccentric young man. His methods were unlike anything he had ever encountered before, but produced results swiftly and accurately. In the weeks that followed, Lestrade was amazed time and again by Holmes. He seemed absolutely nothing like the man he had encountered lying helpless on the floor of his own room on Montague. More than once he questioned his own memory when recalling those words filled with conviction.

Holmes, for his part, never could remember what he'd said or done to have earned the respect of the Yarder. He had fully expected their brief collaboration that had turned sour so swiftly to return to something far less pleasant. Instead, the man had showed a level of interest in his work that amazed him time and again. With increasing regularity, Lestrade would appear with a case he had already solved through much slower methods to see how Holmes would handle it. Or, on rarer occasions, he would appear with a problem Holmes solved with ridiculous ease to get him back on track. In those cases, the inspector would pay a small fee for the use of those services; though he did not invite Holmes' participation beyond that single consultation. He was both gratified and disturbed by the sudden interest. The man did not have the ability to even follow his line of reasoning. He, therefore, had no hope of ever achieving Holmes' level of ability. Yet he strongly encouraged Holmes to continue both with the Yard and other cases. It was almost as if his newfound enthusiasm for his own profession was being directed toward gaining Holmes greater experience in his chosen profession. This level of something akin to approval, Holmes had not expected. Following the years of battle with his brother over such an "absurd" choice of profession, he had not expected approval from any quarter beyond that of his satisfied clients.

The case that had brought them together fell into the depths of silences that would never be brought up again by either of them. For Lestrade, it was a personal blow to know that his own dearest friend since childhood was such a sick and twisted killer. For Holmes it was a miserable failure of a case that left too many unanswered questions. Despite his certainty of involvement from Patrick Richardson, he had still sensed there was another person actually perpetrating the crimes. He had almost expected more bodies to appear as this other man would find another to take the children for him. The lack of bodies after Richardson's death had proved little in Holmes' mind. He wanted a confession. He wanted details. He wanted the actual murderer. He wanted justice.

The one thing he did take away from that case he could count as a blessing both then and in the years to come was the partnership he had formed with what Wiggins termed the Irregulars. Some comment or other Holmes had tossed out apparently appealed to the boy, and he had taken it as a compliment. With pride, he continued to organize groups within the city streets and alleys whenever Holmes had a task. They asked little in return, though Holmes often offered more than he really could afford. He felt a sense of something akin to pride himself at watching their movements and occasionally poking around their activities. Like some sort of small army invading London, they were his. But, from Wiggins, he sensed something more as the boy looked up to him as mentor and possibly even replacement father. Holmes did all he could to deter these ridiculous notions in all of them, though it would fail miserably in the years to come.

Lestrade found a renewed desire for his position as a Scotland Yard inspector. Despite the competition and near-constant jibes from his fellow law-enforcement representatives, he continued to employ Mr. Holmes and his methods whenever possible. He was less concerned about the furthering of his own career, than he was about seeing that eccentric young man develop his unique career. He could easily see the benefits of working outside the structured environment of the Yard, and greatly looked forward to the days when the young man would make a name for himself. If Mr. Holmes happened to provide assistance that helped Lestrade in gaining a higher position or standing for himself in the ranks of Yarders, it was all to the better.

Before Christmas of 1880, the case that brought them together was all but forgotten.

~o~o~o~

Holmes' arrival at Scotland Yard was barely noted by those who saw him. Most were never aware of the original case that had brought him into this new investigation. Those who did know about the current investigation thought the cold and heartless detective was angered more by the personal attack than any sort of loss. At this point, none of them could have guessed what kind of terror lay behind that emotionless mask as he quickly brushed past them toward Lestrade's office where he knew the Yarder and his friend were waiting for him.

Seeing the file in Holmes' hand, Watson sighed heavily. He had not had a chance to peruse its contents, though it likely answered numerous questions. Considering that Holmes had brought it with him, it contained some critical evidence that was needed for the investigation. He did not look forward to having to explain to Lestrade how he had come to be in possession of an item that had been deliberately removed from the crime scene.

The detective took his seat calmly beside Watson as if nothing were out of place before patting Watson gently on the arm to let him know he had noticed his friend's discomfort.

"Patrick Richardson is our killer."

Lestrade very nearly dropped the cup of coffee he was passing across the desk to Holmes at this announcement. For a moment he considered this without comment before eyeing the large file and numerous papers in the detectives hands. Holmes happily presented the file for the inspector's perusal in exchange for the cup of coffee as he then threw a quick glance at Watson. As if addressing his next statements to his friend rather than the inspector, he turned his attention to the coffee in his hands.

"Ms. Alden had sought your assistance in seeking a career in the medical profession. Are you aware of where she has been working these last few years?"

Watson's brow furrowed in thought for a moment. "No. I have had little contact with her since she accepted a posting in a sanitorium outside of London. I do not recall the name. But, I believe it was her choice as opposed to a London hospital."

Holmes nodded as Lestrade gave a startled gasp at what he was reading. Watson's attention diverted for a moment to the paling inspector as Holmes gave an unpleasant grin at the revelations Lestrade was reading for himself. Both eyes were on him once again moments later when he began to explain what was contained within that file.

"Mrs. Richardson paid a handsome sum that put them in a considerable amount of debt to have her husband declared dead and then moved to a sanitorium in another name."

"Paul Atkinson," Lestrade added.

Again Holmes nodded. "The institution was one known to experiment on coma patients in an effort to find ways of reviving them. These experiments ranged from exploring the peculiar reactions to limited stimuli in some patients, to the use of convulsive therapy on the most severe patients displaying no reaction to stimuli."

Watson's expression had taken on a thoughtful, distant appearance as the doctor in him came to the fore. "Does it specify the stimuli and parameters of the experiments?"

"Every detail," Lestrade added with some small sense of horror. "Including the results from their more recent, and successful, experiments."

Watson's eyes narrowed somewhat at this. His gaze sharpened on Holmes' impassive one. "The file was not tampered?"

"No. It is quite detailed, and I would suspect stolen. It would appear Richardson was the subject of many experiments in the last several years. Prior to the death of his wife, their tests were passive. After she passed away, they waited only long enough to be certain another family member would not appear before taking their tests to more extreme levels. Previously she had paid for her husband's residence there rather than accepting the offer of an exchange. Few in such deep comas live so long. The doctors felt it was an opportunity being wasted as she would not allow them to do anything she thought would cause him pain."

Watson's thoughts again turned inward as he recalled what he had read of the few published results of such experimentation and research. His voice was somewhat distant as those green eyes focused on something else completely. "Herbal mixtures, chemicals, electric shocks, and other such inducements for convulsions are the most common of these 'more extreme' experiments. They have produced mixed results, leaving the medical field open for speculation on their usefulness. Despite the damage to the brain being the most common cause of long-term comatose patients, there are those who view the extended coma as a form of mental illness more closely related to catatonia. It is the assumption that the brain heals itself over time—much like the body—and the patients remaining in a coma are simply unwilling to return. These methods are meant to force them into a waking state."

Lestrade's dark eyes grew round at these simply stated declarations from the doctor as Holmes continued to sip his coffee unperturbed. So accustomed to theoretical discussions with fellow doctors or—on much rarer occasions—Holmes, the had quite forgotten that Lestrade was unfamiliar with these areas of research. The combination of horror and possibly nausea he detected in Lestrade's features now had him reaching to take the file before the inspector could glean any more details from its contents.

In a less unfocused and more directed voice, he continued, "It is not common practice, even in most sanatoriums, Giles. There are few, and permission is usually granted by family members wishing to see the return of their loved ones. There is so little that we truly know of how the brain works that it is feasible to assume there is some merit to these experiments. Most tend to use these as a means of helping those suffering from mental illness. Though, there are some such as these that believe other uses may be found."

"It still sounds rather barbaric to me," Lestrade commented, pouring himself another cup of coffee. "Sounds more like torture."

Watson gave a minute hand signal to silence Holmes as he opened his mouth to say something his friend was certain to be abrasive, at the very least. But, given what he knew Lestrade was facing regarding his wife's future care, he was not about to let that happen. Leaning forward, as if cutting Holmes out of this next part, Watson forced those terror-filled dark eyes to meet his own across the desk.

"I promise you, Giles, it is not so bad as that. As I said, permission must be acquired from living family members. And, even then, it is an unlikely eventuality."

Watson, though earnest in his statements, had attempted to speak them delicately enough to avoid what he was certain Holmes would learn eventually. However, as the doctor in this case, he was not about to share Lestrade's information unless the inspector chose. He had not given permission to inform Holmes; but the inspector had not requested the information be withheld, either. Though a look of gratitude passed from inspector to doctor, Holmes' sudden shift in his chair drew their attention away from this private discussion. Catching sight of the fidgeting detective as he made the logical conclusions for himself, Lestrade nearly chuckled.

"Go ahead, John. You might as well satisfy his curiosity," Lestrade told him with some amusement.

Watson flashed a grin in understanding before turning his attention to Holmes. "Cee has what is called Parkinson's disease. Are you familiar with this?"

Holmes frowned darkly, not liking the sound of where this was going. He wracked his memories for a moment before shaking his head. Watson sighed. This was another aspect of being a doctor he really didn't care for, but was one he always handled with compassion. This came naturally, as he had been friends with both Lestrade and his wife for some years now.

"It's also called the shaking disease. While some of the worst symptoms involve physical displays of severe muscular tremors, it also causes impairments of cognitive functions."

Holmes gray eyes and expression alighted for a moment in understanding before creasing deeply with unconcealed sorrow. He nodded again more slowly as he absorbed this information. The horror of losing mental faculties was not his alone, it would seem. He eyed Lestrade with an empathy the inspector had not expected out of the detective. Lestrade's own expression remained impassive as he watched this exchange between his friends. Before Holmes had a chance to speak, he waved a hand dismissively.

"I assume there was more information in that file than just that," Lestrade said, turning the conversation back toward their intended goal.

Holmes shook off his feelings of pity for the man he had, in some ways, considered a mentor in his early career. There were far more important things to consider now if he intended to find a way to prevent Richardson from finishing what he had begun so many years ago.


	8. Wednesday's Child Part I

_**A/N: **Okay, so this is all I've got so far that's readable. I think I know where I'm going with it, but I'm not sure if I'm needing to go back and work on it a bit more. I'm more than open to suggestions, comments, and questions; especially since all of those might stimulate the muses back into action as this monstrosity threatens to die a sickeningly quiet death. I refuse to let it go that easily. _

* * *

**Wednesday's Child**

**Part One**

Together the three of them spent most of the rest of the day within the confines of Lestrade's office piecing together the events that had lead up to this case. From what Watson read of the medical side of things contained within the file, Patrick Richardson had been declared dead at the hospital and quietly removed to the sanitorium. There, the doctors had initially tested him for any reaction to stimuli. When he gave no measurable reactions to the standard physical stimuli used in basic testing, they had informed his wife it was likely only a matter of days before he would die. Much to everyone's surprise, the man seemed to cling to this hollow form of life. As weeks became months, they eventually urged Mrs. Richardson to allow them further testing and experiments that could possibly lead to his revival.

Initially, Mrs. Richardson had been overjoyed at the idea that there was something that could possibly be done. Watson's reading of the file and interpreting much of the medical jargon to both Holmes and Lestrade had paused on more than one occasion with a dark look as the doctors involved had blatantly made use of the woman's emotionally traumatized state to manipulate her into allowing for their experiments. It was a rare, but sad reminder that there were those of his profession that would disregard their oaths to use their knowledge to manipulate and even harm others. But, he had worked long enough with Holmes and Scotland Yard to no longer be surprised at the darkness that lurked within the human mind and soul; even within those who had sworn oaths to protect and preserve life.

Shaking off these thoughts, he focused again on his relating of the contents of the file. The experiments had initially been passive and harmless. They tested reactions to light, sound, touch, and even motions of the body. They increased both the intensity and the frequency of these tests as the lack of results drove them further and further. When Mrs. Richardson discovered lacerations on his body some six months into these experiments, she forced a halt to them. Angered, but still hoping her husband would eventually wake, she remained by his side. She had continued to visit daily to oversee his care and visit.

Mrs. Richardson had begun to display signs of stress shortly after she had ended the experiments. Though the doctors were not entirely certain what the sources of this additional stress could be, they found it to her advantage. Her daily visits became a constant watchfulness that her husband not be harmed. She had become convinced that there were others, including the doctors, meaning to kill him. Her paranoia grew to a point that by the end of the first year in the sanitorium, she had all but moved in with her husband. Stress and paranoia eventually turned into a sort of dementia that had some of the doctors in the sanitorium convinced it was only a matter of time before she was committed to their care as well.

At one point the mention of money for his care was brought up. Again the doctors tried to use this to their advantage by offering to drop all fees for his care in exchange for resuming their testing. Mr. Richardson was still in relatively good health, as he had been well cared for during the eighteen months of his stay. Instead of agreeing to this, Mrs. Richardson had become hysterical. She was very nearly broken then by the idea that they were trying to kill her husband. At one point she disappeared for several days and they had thought that was the end of her.

However, Mrs. Richardson had reappeared with some small amount of money to further care for her husband. Nothing more was said, as the woman's deterioration became swift after this. She almost never left her husband's bedside. She no longer allowed anyone else near him, not even the nurses. Though she took very good care of him, she gradually fell into a state of madness. Convinced she was completely delusional, they allowed her to continue to care for her husband, while monitoring her decline. With her paranoia, there was little they could do for her. She would not eat and rarely slept. And, to Watson's disappointment, most of the doctors saw this as an opportunity. Once she declined to a point she could no longer interfere, they could resume their tests.

At this point in Watson's reading of the file, a break was called by the inspector. Until then, Watson had not realized he was badly creasing the edges of the folder and several of the papers as his hands had begun to curl into fists in his unspoken fury. Disliking being interrupted in the middle of something, Holmes had almost opened his mouth to protest when he caught sight of the creases and the very deliberate way his friend and partner was placing the folder back on the desk. Watson's face was a carefully controlled mask as he fought to keep his fury in check. Holmes had no doubts where the man's thoughts were as he stood and marched quietly out of the office. Lestrade had risen as if to follow, when Holmes put up a hand to pause him before he'd even left his chair.

"Give him a minute," Holmes said quietly.

Lestrade threw him a questioning and uncertain glance, but firmly planted himself back in his chair. The silence drew out for several minutes as each returned to their own contemplations. At one point Lestrade eyed Holmes as if wanting to ask something, but never had the chance as Watson's knock announced his return. None of them said anything, though he did throw a grateful expression in Lestrade's direction. It had never sat well with the doctor that there were others who would use their medical knowledge in such a sickening way. Holmes had no doubts that if the doctors in question were found to still be in practice, Watson would be taking his own steps against them before the end of this case. Picking up the file again as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, Watson resumed his interpretation of the more technical and medical parts of the file.

A little more than two years after Paul Atkinson, formerly known as Patrick Richardson, was committed to the sanitorium, his wife passed away. With no information regarding other family members, she was buried in a nearby cemetery. Now officially Paul Atkinson—with no further proof of identity beyond the walls of the sanitorium—the doctors began a series of experiments that had previously been denied by his wife. These were outlined in great detail within the file. Years and years of these different methods of trying to wake the patient or at least provoke some sort of response beyond the involuntary. With each failed result, they grew more creative and more extreme.

Some ten years into these periodic experiments, they eventually tapered off. Though the sanitorium continued to care for the man's body, he had declined greatly. They expected him to die at any time. However, when he continued to cling to life defying all their observations, they continued to use him as a test subject when and where they found him suitable. Some three years ago, in between tests, one of the nurses caring for him noticed a change. As she would bathe him, he would give involuntary twitches. Many of the previous test resumed. This time they showed increasing reactions to the stimuli. By the end of a year, Mr. Atkinson had nearly fully woken, but possessed few memories of who he was or why he was there. Instead of telling the truth as they knew it, the doctors told him his name and that he was found.

Catherine Alden, the assigned caretaker, spent more and more time with the man as he regained much of his lost physical stamina. It became obvious early on that her pity and sympathy for him only served to increase his desire to recover physically and mentally. They used this bond that the two had formed. However, after two years, both began to suspect there was more to the man's background. Catherine had only been there a short while before she was assigned to him. She had been completely unaware of his background, then. Apparently the memories he regained were not all pleasant ones. Shortly after he shared with the doctors some of what he remembered of a life involving a wife, children, and even a friend in Scotland Yard, he all but clammed up. Though he continued to recover physically, it seemed his mental development had hit a standstill.

This is where some things entered the realm of speculation. Those still involved suspected he was telling Catherine Alden much more. She had become jumpy and closed off to the doctors. She insisted he told her nothing, but was fiercely protective of the man. Despite all their observations, the doctors could make no further progress with him other than to continue to monitor his increasing physical abilities.

At some point here toward the end of the file, Watson's voice tapered off and eventually ceased. Much of what he had been feeling regarding all of this had been painted on his face. Here, he was once again a mask of calm, though Holmes could quite clearly see that much remained beneath the surface. He would need to remember to ask Watson more about this later, as he could not yet determine beyond the obvious what was troubling the man. Watson eventually set the file down on the desk and returned to their present circumstances.

Up to this point, they had had several pots of both coffee and tea. Glancing at his watch, Watson declared it time for a break. The three of them needed to eat, despite Holmes' protests. Watson quickly pushed aside their other concerns and agreed that they could at least continue discussing the aspects of the case not contained in the file as they ate their lunch. Lestrade hid the file beneath a similar appearing stack and locked his door as they left. Until they were settled in a nearby cafe, there was little conversation beyond what to have for their lunch.

As they settled at a table, Lestrade decided to pick up the story of what they knew in the days following Patrick Richardson's death. Mrs. Richardson had sold the business almost immediately. Though she and Patrick had shared the business, it was not entirely unexpected that she sell rather than hire a new person to assist with the orders. Now that they knew the money had gone into his care at the sanitorium, it made all the more sense. However, much of that money also went into their house and the caring for the children. Barely picking at his food, Lestrade scrubbed his face as if he could scrub away the memories.

"She was almost never home. She would leave with the sunrise and usually not come back until late into the night. She had hired a governess to see to the children. Cee and I tried to help, but she would not have anything to do with us. She claimed I and the rest of Scotland Yard were protecting a murderer. She tried every possible way to have Holmes brought up on charges of murder."

Holmes' eyebrows shot into his hairline at this. Obviously he had been unaware of these accusations. Before he could say anything further, though, Lestrade continued and he let the subject drop for the time being.

"It was about a year after Patrick...died, that she and the children moved out. By that point, Cee and I had done all we could to try to help. We didn't know where they went or what had become of them. I assumed she moved away from London. We had seen little of her, so I had no idea what state of mind she was in at the time."

By this point Holmes was deep in thought. The three of them had done little more than pick at their meals. But, in Watson's mind, at least they had had a break from the closed atmosphere of Lestrade's office. Seeing that the two of them were otherwise occupied, Watson took the initiative to get them moving back out the door. They had likely learned all they were going to for the time being. Watson gathered their things and the file and guided Holmes to a cab. Their return to Baker Street was a quietly thoughtful one as Holmes continued to brood. Knowing he was likely in for a long day and night, Watson sat himself to further studying the file and what contents Holmes had found irrelevant at the time. There was something more here, he was certain. Though he could not imagine what.

~o~o~o~

Holmes had spent most of the remaining afternoon and evening brooding and sending telegrams. At some point, Watson had dozed off on the settee once again. It was nearly morning before he woke, surprised to realize he'd slept quite so long. The fact that he had been undisturbed for so long concerned him until he found Holmes sleeping in his chair beside the fireplace. Apparently the man had finally worn himself down enough to rest. Not wanting to disturb him, Watson quietly crept up the stairs and to his own house to refresh himself.

After the events of the previous day, he knew today would be quite busier with having to make up for the missed appointments at his practice. The maid had been paid double for her services after Scotland Yard had finished. He was glad he had had a chance to rest, as it would seem he would be seeing little enough of it in the days to come. Holmes was likely to take his investigation to the next source of information. Without a doubt, he would be paying a visit to the sanitorium and the doctors that had been working there at the time. Watson would need to make himself available. He had no intentions of letting Holmes go alone. More importantly, there were a few questions of his own he intended to have answered. Before he could do this, he would have to see to his neglected patients, the patients originally scheduled today, and find a locum for the next few days.

Refreshed and ready for his day, Watson returned to the sitting room briefly to find Holmes still sleeping soundly. He almost paused to check on his friend as that pale face creased with lines. Obviously the man was suffering a nightmare, though not particularly violent. Instead, Watson retrieved a blanket from the settee and carefully covered Holmes. He murmured soft reassurances to his friend as he settled into a much more peaceful sleep. Quietly he let himself out of the sitting room. On his way out he paused to let Mrs. Hudson know Holmes would likely not be awake for some time.

Now in the early morning sunshine of what seemed to be the start of a very pleasant day, Watson took a deep breath and tried to shake off the darkness that clouded his mind. It would not be fair to his patients today were he to be too distracted by the case. But, he could not help feeling much reassured by the weight of the gun in his pocket and the heft of the walking stick he had chosen. While neither of these were uncommon practices, feeling such comforts when walking the streets of London in the daytime was something altogether different. He was not accustomed to feeling the need for such when fulfilling his role as a physician. Feeling the need to free himself of some of the tension that had permeated the last couple of weeks, he decided to walk to his practice instead of locating a cab.

Though he still had unsettling reminders of the previous day's activities within his consulting room, Watson was thankful for the quieter pace of the day and the distraction. By early afternoon, he was amused to realize he was even thankful for the regular appearances of the hypochondriacs. The one reminder of his life outside the consulting room came in the form of a telegram delivered while he was taking a brief lunch in between patients. Holmes had obviously decided not to wait. Watson was less than pleased that the detective had left him behind, but not entirely surprised. Though Holmes had not specifically stated he wished Watson to remain in London, it was a subtle suggestion that he should.

For the second time that day, Watson returned to his office to re-organize his patient list into something manageable while arranging to keep a locum on call in case of need. Suddenly his day just seemed far longer than he wished. The rest of the week was likely not to be any better.

~o~o~o~

When Holmes failed to reappear by Monday evening, Watson was packed and ready to locate the man himself. He knew the most likely places to start in the areas around the sanitorium, but did not like the idea of having to chase the man. He had already been left to his own devices for the better part of three days while Holmes delved into the events around the sanitorium outside of the official file. Come Monday morning, he was determined to have a word with Holmes in person if he did not reappear soon.

For no better reason than to distract himself, Watson began making his charity rounds early that Monday morning. Late into the evening as he headed back toward his own section of London, Watson sensed more than saw the presence that had been shadowing him that afternoon. Taking a detour, he had the cab drop him off on Oxford. With his bag in one hand and his cane in the other, he headed back toward Baker Street as if nothing out of the ordinary had yet occurred to him. Stopping for a moment to glance down the street before crossing, he caught sight of his shadow. Smiling to himself, he continued toward his lodgings.

"How long have you been back in London?" he finally called, reaching the door to 221B.

The dry chuckle from the form materializing out of the alley nearby greeted him as Holmes gave up his position. "I only arrived this morning. Mrs. Hudson had told me you were making your rounds."

The conversation carried on into the foyer as Watson let them both in before relocking the door with a click. Mrs. Hudson greeted them briefly to inform them dinner would soon be ready before shooing them up to the sitting room with the promise of a pot of tea to follow.

"I had been neglecting them," Watson responded as they returned to the sitting room. "And, so long as this case continues, they are in as much danger as anyone else around us. I thought it appropriate to use this as a means of warning them."

To this Holmes nodded distractedly. Watson knew the man was likely organizing his thoughts before presenting the information he had acquired while away. However, the dark lines of exhaustion and worry that creased Holmes' face did not bode well. Finally Holmes flopped into the chair across from Watson and buried his face in his hands.

"Alright there, Holmes?"

For several seconds Holmes did not respond. His shoulders slumped as he forced himself to sit back in the chair. Those gray eyes will filled with something Watson could only ascribe to as a sort of guilt or regret as they turned toward the ceiling. He was well aware of the circumstances of the end of his first case with Lestrade and how Holmes felt about what he called a miserable failure of a case. He sat this way until Mrs. Hudson eventually broke into the moment with the arrival of a fresh pot of tea. As if something had been sparked, Holmes once again transformed into his usual energetic self, leaving Watson to wonder. However, he didn't have long to wait. Almost the moment Mrs. Hudson closed the sitting room door, Holmes began the tale of all he had learned in and around the sanitorium.

~o~o~o~

Mrs. Richardson had, indeed sold the business she had shared with her husband to pay for his initial transfer and stay in the sanitorium. She had been convinced then that should either Lestrade or Holmes discover his continued existence that they would come to finish what Holmes had apparently started. As told in the file, she allowed for some experiments and visited daily, despite the hours of travel. She had quickly grown tired and rather careworn, but continued to visit daily. The doctors were unaware of the existence of the children. Holmes had discovered that a governess was employed, just as Lestrade had told them. However, the governess was dismissed almost at the same time that Mrs. Richardson had put a stop to the testing on her husband.

The woman's failed attempts to get a murder conviction pinned on Holmes combined with the stress of her situation had only exacerbated her delicate mental status. She swiftly grew more and more paranoid until she had even accused the governess of turning her own children against her. Holmes had been able to locate this governess and get the full story of the woman's less than stable condition. But, as Lestrade had said, there was little that could be done about the situation. Before the end of the first year, Mrs. Richardson had taken to locking the children in a room and even drugging them unconscious before leaving to ensure they would not escape or cause trouble. She would return that night and release them and feed them before putting them to bed.

Terrified, the children had made several escape attempts, but were never successful. The combination of nearly constant drugs, and often food deprivation, kept them far too weak to do more. When it became clear that she could not keep the situation entirely contained or secret there in London, she arranged the sale of the house and took herself and her children out of London. Holmes had then traced them to a small village nearby. Keeping to herself as she did, no one knew much of anything about her or the children. Her initial practice of drugging them and feeding them only when she was forced to do so continued.

Eventually the situation had degenerated to the point that she was in need of more money or she would have to submit her husband for the other tests she had previously refused to allow. At one point, she had even made the attempt to remove him from the sanitorium and bring him to the little cottage she had purchased. When confronted with the fact that she could not care for both the children and her husband she had finally broken. The dementia and paranoia had gone unchecked for so long that she had almost completely lost touch with reality. But there had been just enough there that she formulated a plan that horrified even Watson.

Instead of murdering the children to get them out of the way as Holmes would have suspected, she brought them back to London. Under the assumed name of Mrs. Atkinson, she had located some people in different areas of London that lead her to some of the worst places Holmes could imagine. He was not unfamiliar with these, though he had helped to shut down many of them in the last two decades. This was one of them. But, obviously, it had been long after the Richardson children were dead. Mrs. Richardson had sold her children to various men who happily used them as slaves or turned them into prostitutes. Holmes, holding out some hope, had been unable to find any one of the three children now and could only assume they had not survived that brutal, sickening life for very long.

Watson—greatly disturbed by this—listened intently, knowing Holmes to be no less disturbed, for all his dry, clear relating of these facts. Following this, Mrs. Richardson sold the cottage and devoted all her money and time to the care of her husband. Though quite insane by this point, the doctors there saw that she was not harming anyone and allowed it to continue. They accepted the money knowing it was only a matter of time that she would eventually succumb to her madness and they would then have unrestricted access to her comatose husband. Again, this brought Watson's ire to the fore. His disgust must have been plain on his face by that point, as Holmes paused long enough to assure his friend that those particular doctors were no longer around to allow such callous behavior ever again.

Still not satisfied, Watson sensed there was more and waited patiently for Holmes to pour them both more tea before continuing.

Catherine Alden had arrived at the sanitorium ignorant of many things. However, she quickly took to the caring of patients of all kinds. She had been the one to first alert the doctors to the change in Mr. Atkinson's status. Over the course of several months, she helped the doctors to coax him back to wakefulness. He was severely physically diminished and needed almost constant care and encouragement. What was not reported in the files that Holmes later found in Ms. Alden's personal journals were the details of a horror story that had left even Holmes chilled.

The man she knew as Mr. Atkinson had slowly begun to regain memories of who he was and what he had been. The doctors were quick to assure him that these were false and likely produced by the damage to his brain. One had even very nearly convinced the man that they were dreams he must have had while in the coma. Catherine had sensed something else, however. Where the doctors who knew little of the man before had seen only the opportunity to study a rather unique case of brain damage and recovery, she saw a suffering man. She had quietly encouraged and even helped him to regain many memories. When others were not looking, she provided him diaries in which to write down these memories. The bits and pieces of Patrick Richardson's life returned.

But there had been something else there that he had kept hidden from her and all the others. There was another personality inside of him. This other personality had been the murderer. The part of him that was Patrick Richardson battled this other part of him throughout several months of this recovery. But it was a clearly detailed, entirely separate entity that would often appear in some of these journals that Catherine had kindly not read at his request. All she had ever seen was the developing part of the personality that was once Patrick Richardson. And it was that part with which she fell in love.

All the while the darker side of Richardson had been using this to his advantage. Now the dominant personality, it had manipulated her feelings. Eventually he had recovered enough that they made plans for him to escape. She had stolen the file in the hopes of all but erasing the history of the man known as Paul Atkinson. That very night, nearly two years ago now, they had escaped. She had taken him away to a home in the countryside that had once belonged to a cousin that had recently died. Holmes had traced the events to this location where it seemed life was quiet and fairly normal. Apparently he had continued to recover and there had even been talk of marriage.

Richardson had again taken up the profession of a tailor as he regained his mobility and dexterity. Though, there had been some issues along the way, and he had been much slower than in the past, it was enough of an income that they could survive. Catherine had given up her work as a nurse and became a maid in a local household. From time to time Richardson would disappear for a few days at a time claiming he was seeing to some old friends of his and trying to garner more business. He always took what materials he could with him, and tended to return almost empty handed with all the appearance of having worked.

What Holmes learned was that every doctor that had been involved in the sanitorium from the time he was admitted to the time he escaped had been brutally murdered. He had murdered them in very much the same fashion as the children before, but had not left their bodies to be found. Holmes could only speculate on much of this, as he had been able to locate only one body. The one had proven the method, along with enlightening him to the dual personality that had once left him suspecting a second murderer. Having kept much of this information to himself, he had gained access to Catherine's home and located the journals before alerting the local constabulary of her murder. Holmes had read through them thoroughly in the time he had had.

The trail eventually lead to their return to London. Under the pretense of starting a new life and new business as tailor, Richardson had convinced her to come with him. This had, unfortunately, been the start of what would later result in her murder. From what Holmes had been able to tell, Richardson had plotted his revenge against both himself and Lestrade in minute detail. For nearly a year, he had kept the name Atkinson and Catherine had been his devoted "wife". During most of the last year he had been watching their movements and everyone around them. He found their residence here in London, and had gained enough information from the details to have pieced together what all had taken place.

However, the house had been abandoned. It had obviously been the sight of the first two murders. At the same time Richardson had taken Matthew, he had bound Catherine and kept her there until it was her turn a week later. In Holmes' mind, this explained the sudden appearance of the second victim so close to the note. He had already been prepared for this. Though, it did not mean he intended to let his guard down.

Holmes was fully expecting the note that arrived two days later, right on schedule. He had even anticipated the recipient that stood before him in the sitting room. He had no need to read it as Lestrade handed it over.

WEDNESDAY'S CHILD IS FULL OF WOE.


	9. Wednesday's Child Part II

**_A/N: _**_Considering this chapter and some of the following look something more like a train wreck, I'm not going to apologize for taking the extra time to post them. Lol You really would not want to have seen them before. _

_Things are beginning to move, now; but it is still much slower going than previous projects. I've got a lot of things screaming for my attention, and I hope to get back to posting on this and others as NaNoWriMo comes to an end in the following week or two._

* * *

**Wednesday's Child**

**Part Two**

Holmes considered this latest missive as the three of them stood in the wreckage of what had once been the sitting room at 221B Baker Street. In the last several days Watson had been left to his own devices, he had done wonders for straightening much of the mess along with Mrs. Hudson's infinite patience. However, in the last twelve or so hours since Holmes and Watson had returned, the place had been turned upside down all over again in an attempt to gauge who the next victim might be. Along with this they had also been searching for any means of locating the place the next murder would occur in the hopes of stopping Richardson. Of course, Holmes had never located the first place used all those years ago.

Despite Holmes' extraordinarily calm exterior for having gained so much information, he felt no closer to stopping Richardson than he had been a week ago. Worse was that the fact that all the questions he'd found answers to thus far had done nothing toward answering the one question that weighed most heavily on his mind. He felt as if he was chasing himself in circles while Richardson prowled more and more closely chosing his next victims with a care to who would suffer the most.

His only consolation in all of this was the fact that Emily was out of London and safely ensconced in the countryside with the Forresters. The Irregulars had taken to hiding or only going out in groups when absolutely necessary. Watson had taken to carrying his revolver in his pocket even when just venturing to a newsstand.

Yet, for all of these precautions, Holmes knew it was not nearly enough. It was only a matter of time before the next victim was taken. From what he could gather, Richardson would take his victims whenever and wherever was convenient. However, he made a deliberate point of murdering them on the designated day. This was something of a break in the pattern, as there had been no designated day all those years ago. So this aspect of the killings had to be a very deliberate plot for Holmes and Lestrade to suffer all the more for knowing when it would happen, but not to whom or where.

Holmes was again pacing and growling to himself, ignoring both Watson's efforts to get him to eat and the breakfast laid out on the table. The heat of the day was only noticed for the fact that it was daytime at all. Lestrade's presence had not been unexpected. Quite the opposite. Holmes had expected Lestrade to have been the second. The fact that it was Watson was meant to suffer for the second victim meant that Richardson had been somewhat rushed. As far as Holmes could tell, the man had been plotting this for quite some time. The information he had gleaned from Catherine had been detailed, indeed. Her murder the same day as the second warning meant much...and nothing at all.

Lestrade stood stiffly and silently amid the chaos of the sitting room. The total lack of reaction from Holmes was not entirely unexpected. However, Watson could detect the near panic lurking behind Lestrade's eyes as he watched Holmes with a sort of desperate hope. Given Holmes' absence of the last several days, obviously the inspector was hoping that Holmes had found his answers and would be well on the way to stopping Richardson.

"Get them out of the city. Tonight," Holmes barked, turning away to resume his pacing.

For a moment, Lestrade considered this. Again, no surprise showed in his features, only a thinly veiled disappointment. He needed no clarification. His shoulders slumped only slightly though before he recovered himself. As if having steeled himself for something unpleasant, he waited for Holmes to meet his gaze.

"I don't believe I ever properly thanked you, Holmes," Lestrade started.

Now he had the detective's attention. Holmes' dark brows rose in curious interest. "Whatever for?"

Lestrade smiled thinly, almost bitterly. "Richardson was my friend. I had known him since childhood. I would never have suspected him, obviously. Before you came along I could not think beyond the miserable mess that London—and the rest of the world—had become."

Here he paused as if gathering his thoughts. The gaze he leveled on Holmes then was a mix of bemusement and earnest sincerity. "Before you challenged me, as a man_ and _an inspector, I had very much lost faith. You were right. I_ had _already given up. Over the years you have proved to me that doing the right thing really does come with little reward."

The look of discomfort on Holmes' pale features at this point was not missed by either of them. But Lestrade continued anyway.

"The pleasure of seeing you work and stand by your convictions has been an honor, Mr. Holmes. Whatever happens, I wanted you to know that. And, thank you, for_ all _that you have done."

By this point Holmes' face had gone through various shades of red as his face transformed through several surprisingly visible emotions. From embarrassment to near horror at some idea or another, he had run quite a gauntlet. Then, pale and composed once more, those gray eyes settled on the inspector with no small amount of amusement of his own.

"You have no need to thank me, Inspector," Holmes said with some formality, though mixed with uncertainty. "You were simply needing a different perspective."

"Nevertheless, I _do _thank you," Lestrade repeated. "I will make what arrangements I can. Good day, gentlemen."

Watson didn't realize he'd been holding his breath during that exchange until Lestrade had turned to leave. He had sensed from the moment Lestrade had started to speak that there was so much more to this little conversation than either of them were letting on. Sadly, he knew without a doubt he would never know the truth of it. But, as Lestrade was reaching for the sitting room door, he sensed it was almost as if the man were were saying good-bye. He realized that this was Lestrade's way of telling them he did not blame either of them for any failure and that the inspector would likely die protecting his family.

"Giles, wait," Watson called in a flash of inspiration. "Cee can't travel."

Lestrade's hand froze on the doorknob. Again his shoulders slumped slightly. Though there had been no question in Watson's words, Lestrade nodded as if in answer before turning back around to face him.

"Abby won't leave her while she is like this," Lestrade added. "As I said, I will make what arrangements I can."

Helplessly Watson turned to Holmes. He was not about to allow the inspector to walk out with this hanging over him. If Richardson really was going to go after Lestrade's family, there_ had _to be something they could do. Holmes had to have known this was coming. He had to have planned for this. But, Watson was also forced to admit, Holmes had not previously known of Mrs. Lestrade's condition or how badly she had degenerated.

"_I_ will make arrangements, Lestrade," Holmes announced after thinking for only a few seconds. "My suggestion to you would be to take some time away from the Yard. Guard them, and I will do what I can."

"Holmes—"

"If what Watson says is true, there is not much of a choice," Holmes said, waving off whatever he thought the inspector was about to say. "We may even be able to use this to our advantage."

Watson's felt his own face pale as Lestrade's flushed scarlet with barely contained fury. Those dark eyes flashed dangerously for a moment.

"You intend to use my family as bait?" he asked in a carefully controlled voice.

"Not as such, no," Holmes said in a distant voice as if already plotting at a furious pace. "However, if they are guarded, and Richardson has no opportunity..."

For several seconds Watson and Lestrade waited in less than patient silence while Holmes obviously delved into whatever idea had struck him. Then, Holmes turned away from both of them with his head down and chin on his chest as he paced toward the fireplace and back a few times. Realizing that whatever had captured the detective's attention was not likely to be revealed anytime soon, Watson moved to join Lestrade at the door. Quietly the two exited the sitting room. Watson lead the way down the landing and stairs back to the foyer.

"Giles—"

"It's quite alright, John," Lestrade cut him off, already knowing what was coming next. "It was not anything we didn't expect."

"Holmes will come up with something," Watson assured him anyway.

Lestrade gave a half-hearted twitch of his lips. "I know."

"I'll come by in a few days."

Surprisingly Lestrade frowned and shook his head at this. "Best not. Holmes will be needing you."

Sensing there was more to this, Watson opened his mouth to say something. Before he had a chance, however, Mrs. Hudson had pushed open the door bumping right into Lestrade. In the moments of confusion, Lestrade made his way out the door and was gone while Watson was left still frowning in concern. Putting it away for another time, he returned to the sitting room to find Holmes sitting meditatively on the floor in a pile of new papers.

~o~o~o~

The hours crawled interminably as Watson waited for whatever it was Holmes was thinking through to run its course. Late into the night Holmes seemed to return to their present surroundings. As he came out of his own head long enough to notice the time, Watson took advantage of the moment to shove a bowl of stew into his hands along with calling for a pot of coffee. He refused to listen to anything Holmes had to say until the man had eaten the entire amount. Of course, this only aroused Holmes' suspicions of the doctor making good on earlier threats. With a dark glare, Watson assured him the food had not been tampered or altered in such a way as to render Holmes unconscious.

The irritation of this near-constant tension had worn the doctor's nerves down. He waited less than patiently for Holmes to eat while he very deliberately smoked his pipe and refrained from firing numerous questions in his direction. Only when Holmes had consumed the entire bowl—grudgingly and with much grumbling—did he finally set aside his pipe and pour them both cups of freshly brewed coffee.

Holmes almost felt guilty when he realized how much strain he had been putting on his dear friend. But, he could not deny that this strain was beginning to wear on even his nearly inhuman endurance. This had stretched on for weeks, thus far. He hoped to put an end to it soon.

"My apologies, Watson," Holmes started, staring into his cup. "I realize this has been...difficult."

Watson heaved a sigh as he sat back into his own chair beside the empty fireplace. "No need for apologies, dear chap. You should know that much by now. But, can you tell me what you are planning, at the least?"

For a moment Holmes eyed Watson critically. The man looked nothing short of a wreck himself. He'd not slept nor eaten much more than Holmes. But now there was a fervor behind those green eyes. He had already sensed the anger and concern that had been present since the day Matthew had been discovered. However, there was a sort of intensity there now that had not been present before. Not accustomed to seeing this in his friend, he began to worry before he realized the source of Watson's change. He was concerned for Lestrade. And there was an obvious desire to do all he could as a friend to prevent what they all knew was likely to occur. Holmes frowned again as he considered how much to tell Watson.

Holmes nodded slowly as he absorbed this not entirely unexpected information. For a few seconds he considered all the implications of what he was planning. He had considered using Lestrade's family as a sort of bait. Obviously Richardson would go after one of them sooner or later. But that was not something that sat well with the detective, and Watson would never forgive him for such a thing. Watson, himself, could even be considered a target under the circumstances. Worse was the consideration that Watson could be used against either himself of Lestrade. Watson was likely in far more danger than the inspector, at present; and had not even bothered to consider this for himself. But, knowing his Watson, the man would probably welcome the opportunity to be used as bait himself; if for no other reason than to put a stop to all of this before Richardson claimed another victim.

Holmes only barely managed to repress a shudder as the image of Watson strung up and hacked to pieces while still alive flitted through his mind. Offering up a prayer that Watson would not fall into the category of potential victim, Holmes maintained his cool facade. Putting aside these thoughts, he finally returned his focus to the tense man in the chair across from him.

"I intend to give Richardson no easy target among the Lestrades," Holmes announced. "I will force him to change targets. Possibly even convince him to go after his preferred targets, thus falling into a more predictable and familiar pattern of behavior."

Watson's expression darkened considerably at this as he realized what Holmes was implicating. "The Irregulars?"

"Consider the layout of the neighborhood around the Lestrades' house," Holmes told him. "There are not many places for people to hide without drawing attention. Children, however, fit quite nicely into the scene. And, I imagine, it would not be too difficult to gain the neighbors' assistance. The Lestrades are well-liked and have been there for some time."

Watson's furrowed brow lessened somewhat as he considered these things, but it was still quite obvious he did not like these plans. But, he knew better than to doubt the detective. If Holmes planned on making someone bait Richardson, it was not likely to be an innocent. He may be slower than Holmes when it came to plotting and laying out plans, but he quickly grasped the fact that Holmes had far more planned out here than he was sharing. Holmes watched as those green eyes sharpened as he considered these things.

"There's more," Watson said flatly, likely already knowing the answer.

Holmes shrugged and twitched his lips in the approximation of a grin. Surprisingly, Watson's face darkened considerably as he launched himself from the chair to pace down the sitting room. Holmes' attempt at levity having failed, he switched tactics.

"I do not need to explain to you the dangers of the situation, Watson. I have no doubt even you can grasp them quite well enough on your own," he tossed over his shoulder at his tense friend.

"Yes," Watson growled unhappily.

Holmes checked a sigh and allowed Watson to sort through his thoughts and feelings for himself upon these matters. There was much to do in the days to come, and he had little time in which to do it. He would need Watson's help. He battled his first instinct to get the doctor as far away from this whole miserable situation, since he knew it would not work. For now, he would just have to work around him and pray that Richardson would react accordingly.

~o~o~o~

Thursday morning Holmes' plans had already fallen into place more quickly than he could have hoped. Lestrade had done as expected and all but barricaded himself and his family within their home. If Richardson had already chosen one of them as a target, he was going to be greatly disappointed. Holmes had gone through a list of everyone known to have any relationship with the inspector even beyond that of Scotland Yard. Those within the ranks of Scotland Yard were already informed and had their own plans. Holmes did not concern himself with their goings on, as he knew they would take care of themselves and each other.

Lestrade, however, was unaware of the majority of Holmes' plans; much as was Watson. Holmes had planted Irregulars in every house and yard surrounding the Lestrades' home in every direction. Within the same homes were planted men Holmes had learned were of use in various skills that were of a questionably legal nature. He had no doubts Lestrade had noticed the unusual number of children playing in the streets and yards all around. But of the others, he sincerely hoped the inspector would be forgiving. Though it had cost Holmes dearly to summon so many men, he did not regret it. It was not simply for the inspector's protection, or that of his family.

For all that Holmes had learned of Richardson and the darker personality that inhabited his deranged mind, he still did not know the original intent that had driven the man to murder those children so many years ago. While he made a greatly visible show of planting children resembling the first victims all around the Lestrades' neighborhood, and men to protect them, he was busy elsewhere. His own goal was not so much in luring the man into chosing another target, but in revealing the location in which he was committing the murders. If he could find the monster in his lair, he had a chance of stopping this.

And he would stop this, before the man could strike again. He doubted Richardson's newly chosen target would fall anywhere in that neighborhood around the Lestrades. Most of that was for show, only. He had no intentions of making any of those children or Lestrade's family a target. The men was just in case Richardson proved him wrong. Despite his confidence bordering on arrogance, Holmes was not about to take a chance.

Thursday rolled into Friday, and Friday into the weekend. Holmes crawled every inch of the city in search of anyone even remotely resembling Richardson. By Monday Holmes was ready to tear the city apart in frustration. Without the Irregulars, he still had enough contacts throughout the highest and lowest sections of the city to have found something. Weeks of hunting had produced nothing. So far as he could tell, the man was nothing more than a ghost. As Tuesday night crept toward the early morning hours of Wednesday just after midnight, Holmes was forced to admit that he would not find Richardson in time. He had to turn his attentions back to assessing how it was Richardson was choosing his targets.

Obviously the man was taunting them with the nursery rhyme. Matthew had not fallen into the day of the week, since no one knew when he had been born. Catherine had been chosen purely out of proximity and the man's desire to share his information. The criteria for the next victim would likely fall on proximity again. Wrapped entirely in these thoughts chasing themselves around his head along with all other aspects of Richardson he had learned thus far, Holmes returned to his rooms on Baker Street only half aware of his surroundings at best.

After changing out of his most recent costume, Holmes flopped into his chair in the sitting room. Hours passed as Holmes delved into these thoughts trying to puzzle out what Richardson's motive were beyond the obvious. Mrs. Hudson came and went, though he had hardly noticed. Whatever she said was dismissed as quickly as the tray of breakfast food and coffee the woman had left on the table. It was several minutes before he became aware of the nagging sensation in the back of his mind that something was missing. With a huff of irritation, he turned his attention at last to the sitting room. Watson had not yet forced a cup of coffee and some food on him.

Suddenly his thoughts came to a screeching halt as he surveyed the sitting room more closely. Watson had likely been gone for no more than a few hours. Rising from his chair, he wandered out of the sitting room and up the stairs to Watson's former bedroom. Since Emily had been sent away, Watson had practically moved into the sitting room. However, it was quite likely the man had finally decided to return to his own rooms for some undisturbed sleep. Holmes had no doubts that the continued strain of the case being so personal combined with the nearly ceaseless activity within the sitting room had left his friend exhausted.

He let himself into Watson's house through the door in his friend's former bedroom. Watson was not in his bed. Though the house felt abandoned, Holmes called out for the doctor anyway. The first stirrings of concern began to formulate in the back of his mind. Closing and locking the door, he returned to his own rooms. He confirmed for himself once again that Watson's medical bag and other items were missing. He had obviously left in a hurry, but not without taking the time to secure the items he would most need for his normal rounds. Likely, he had been called to attend a patient. Yet, Holmes could not help the sense of something being terribly wrong. Watson had made arrangements for his rounds to be covered. He would not have gone out alone in the current circumstances.

On his way past the table, Holmes spotted the stack of posts he had all but ignored these last several days. Downstairs he could hear the front door opening and closing as Mrs. Hudson set out to do her shopping. He now wished he had paid more attention to what she had said. His heart began to race as he flipped through the envelopes, scattering them about the floor. Finally his hands fell on a telegram that nearly had him sighing with relief. That was just before Holmes' found himself barely resisting the urge to tear the telegram to shreds. Watson had, indeed, been called upon to help with a patient critically injured and demanding his presence at the hospital. Though Watson assured him he had taken precautions and would send a message later to update him, Holmes was more than a little irritated by the timing. This was no time for Watson to be away from Baker Street.

Realizing the hour, Holmes quickly dressed and was out the door in minutes. He arrived at the hospital to find that Watson had been called in by the patient because the man had been hoping the doctor would contradict the primary surgeon's assessment that his leg would have to be amputated. Then, when it became apparent the leg would have to be removed, Watson had spent the night assisting the surgeon and repairing damage to the other leg that had also been run over by the wheel of the runaway cab. Following this, there had been another summons by a child fearing for his mother's life.

Watson had not left a message with anyone Holmes could locate at the hospital. Though he was certain his friend had taken a cab to get to the destination all the quicker, Holmes could not find anyone that remembered picking up the doctor. While out, he had checked on both Scotland Yard and the Lestrades to discover nothing had changed and Richardson had not so much as been spotted. Toward late afternoon Holmes returned to Baker Street in the hopes that Watson would have returned. Instead, he found both his rooms and Watson's house still empty. There was no sign the man had returned even long enough to freshen up.

His fear had already trebled by this point as he headed downstairs to ask Mrs. Hudson if she had received any messages. Clearly none had been left in the sitting room, which was disturbing enough in itself. The lack of response had already been noted when his return failed to produce the woman. Grumbling to himself in an effort to control his rising fear, he gave up knocking and admitted himself to the private sanctum of his landlady.

Mrs. Hudson had never returned.

Though he rarely bothered to even make note of her movements, he could not recall in all these years a time when her Wednesday shopping had ever taken an entire day. Until now, he had not even considered the fact that Richardson might consider her a target. Cursing himself he flew back up the stairs. In minutes he was out the door and hunting a cab. He had not even made it a block from his own door before the cries of several young voices caught his attention.

"Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes!"

Even as he turned to snarl a question as to why any of his Irregulars would dare leave the safety of their headquarters against his orders, he was nearly bowled over by one of the youngest in the small group as she attached herself to his knees. Whatever he had been about to say died on his lips at the look of terror in those four sets of eyes. Their present state of cleanliness confirmed in his mind that they had not taken to the street against his wishes. These had come straight from their secret lodgings to bring him this news.

"Toby is missing!" wailed the little girl wrapped around his legs.

"When?" Holmes snapped, peeling the girl off him roughly.

"This morning," James answered, controlling his fear admirably. "He came for the usual check in, just like you told us. But he never made it home. His father just came looking for him."

Holmes frowned deeply, his mind already racing. Watson was missing, otherwise he would have sent a message or a telegram. Mrs. Hudson was missing, had not returned from her shopping. Now Toby was missing, and his parents did not know anything more than the Irregulars. Silently Holmes cursed. It was possible Richardson had had a part in one or all three, since he had made no attempts on Lestrade. His mind raced furiously. Each had occurred in a different area of the city. Likely, each had occurred at different times. He did not have enough data to follow the movements even if Richardson had been involved in all three. Now he was forced to pick between the three possibilities and hope one would lead him to the other two.

The children waited expectantly for his orders while his mind raced. He didn't dare call them out of hiding or alter their plans. The risk was too great that one of them would become the next victim if Richardson was given the opportunity. He could not take his current detail off of Lestrade without opening him up as a risk. It seemed unlikely Richardson would have taken Mrs. Hudson as anything other than a diversion, though he still did not entirely understand the man's criteria for choosing victims. Watson would be a likely—and now _easy—_target, since he had already been drawn out of the safe confines of their rooms on Baker Street. However, Toby would have fallen into his chosen category of victims from before, along with being used against Holmes.

Making his decision, Holmes snapped off his instructions. The children tore back down the streets at top speed. Praying he had made the right choice, Holmes hailed the first available cab. For all his cool, aloof appearance, he could not hope to control the racing of his heart and the trembling of his hands as he sped across the city.


	10. Wednesday's Child Part III

**Wednesday's Child**

**Part III**

Holmes was not surprised to find Scotland Yard in its usual state of controlled chaos when he arrived. However, the grim tension that filled the building was almost tangible. From the lowest rookie constable to the chief inspectors, every face he encountered was filled with either barely controlled anger or fear.

_No,_ Holmes thought in self-denial as he reached the correct conclusion in seconds.

Ignoring the looks he received for barging right in on their own work, Holmes made his way directly to the offices of the other inspectors. He was not surprised to find that none were present. Cursing again, he grabbed the arm of a passing clerk.

"What is happening?" he barked at the youth.

For a moment the boy seemed ready to say something about Holmes' rough treatment. Then, his otherwise occupied mind seemed to catch up with the present. The long, scowling face and dangerously glittering gray eyes that bored into his had him paling. Holmes had not intended to frighten the young man, and really didn't have the time or patience for coddling. He opened his mouth to verbally lash the man into an answer when he was startled into silence.

"Thank God you're here!" he exclaimed.

The stack of papers in his arms were dropped on the spot as he took Holmes' arm and lead him down the hall. Too surprised to react, Holmes allowed himself to be dragged.

"The inspectors have been looking for you all over the city," the young man explained. "They were expecting you to be with Inspector Lestrade—"

"Mr. Holmes!"

Holmes turned at the unfamiliar voice to find Superintendent Patterson approaching. The young man that had been towing him across the building suddenly released his grip and backed away a few steps.

"I found him looking—"

"Come with me," Patterson barked at Holmes, not waiting for a response.

More than a little irritated, Holmes gritted his teeth. He really didn't have time for this, and he had been informed that Scotland Yard had made the necessary preparations to prevent any of their own from becoming targets. Even as he followed the Superintendent toward his office, he opened his mouth to ask who had been the victim. The sight of Lestrade standing just inside Patterson's open office door silenced him more effectively than any gag could have.

"What the—"

"Where the devil have you been?" Lestrade snapped, momentarily ignoring his superior.

Patterson closed the door behind them. "He doesn't know," he told Lestrade before Holmes could answer.

"Who?" Holmes asked, already knowing it hadn't been one of the Lestrade's family.

Lestrade's lips thinned into an angry line as he took in Holmes' ragged, exhausted appearance. A moment later the man's expression filled with fear as he realized why Holmes had come to the Yard if he had not already been informed of the current situation.

"Dr. Watson?" Lestrade asked, his face paling considerably.

"Yes," he snapped. "And Mrs. Hudson, and one of my Irregulars, and apparently one of your inspectors. Now, if you are so keen on my assistance, tell me—"

"Hopkins," Lestrade answered, still not quite over the shock and fear. "I could not stay when I heard from Bradstreet. You've quite well covered my area, Holmes. They are safe enough, for now."

To this Holmes nodded once before turning his attention to the Superintendent who had waited patiently for them to finish. He had no need to ask. In seconds the man had explained that Hopkins had never made it home the night before. He had left Scotland Yard and taken a cab. The cab never arrived at its destination. Before Patterson and Lestrade could even get as far as telling him what they were currently doing to locate both the cab and the missing inspector, Holmes had left the office and was on his way out of Scotland Yard. Lestrade didn't hesitate in abandoning his superior as the man had nodded his assent, anyway, the moment Holmes had opened the door.

His mental map of London having been called to mind, Holmes could easily see the circular pattern. Hopkins had been the first to disappear. Watson had likely been the second. Toby had been the third. Mrs. Hudson had been the fourth. If Richardson had stolen a cab and murdered the driver to keep it quiet for a while, then it would easily explain how the man was able to move through the city with such ease. From taking the victim to dumping the body and all the transportation in between, it was now laid out ridiculously simple in Holmes' mind. He cursed himself all over again for not having thought of this. A cab would explain many things. And, worse, it had made his movements throughout the city that much less noticeable.

And it had made access to each of these four that much easier. The speed and ease of movement meant he could easily have taken all four to have his pick of victims now and for later. If he held with the pattern he'd set in the nursery rhyme, he would need a total of five more victims; including the one he was likely already working on today. The mental images of that thought flitting through his mind had him stopping in his tracks, all other thoughts momentarily obliterated.

For one, brief moment he could hear Watson's screams as Richardson cut off his fingers and toes. He could see the horror in Mrs. Hudson's eyes as Watson was dismembered in front of her. He could feel the unspeakable terror in Toby's mind as he slipped into shock at the sight of all the blood pouring from the doctor who tended his family. He could feel chafing of the bindings on Hopkins' wrists as he fought to free himself and rescue the victim being cut apart in front of him.

The slap that brought him back to the present left his ears ringing. Only then did Lestrade's presence and voice penetrate the visions that had all but consumed him.

"—don't have time for this! Pull yourself together!"

Taking a deep breath, Holmes pushed those thoughts aside to focus on his previous train of thought.

"Thank you."

Lestrade blinked. Though it was not the first time he'd been forced into taking the doctor's position of bringing the detective out of whatever had gripped his mind, he was well aware he was far less gentle or effective in his methods. Having the detective thank him for such was a reflection of how badly disturbed the man's present state of mind must be. Before he had a chance to ask, however, Holmes was off again.

"Come, Lestrade," he called over his shoulder.

Growling, less than pleased with being utterly clueless, he trailed after the detective as they headed back across the city. He did not doubt Holmes had thought of something that they had thus far overlooked. He just prayed they would be in time to stop Richardson, preferably permanently.

~o~o~o~

As the cab pulled to a stop in front of 221B Baker Street, Holmes launched himself from the cab with Lestrade only a step behind. The sun was already setting and Holmes did not doubt it was already too late for Richardson's intended victim. However, he was not so lost to his thoughts as to not notice that the door was slightly ajar. He halted to abruptly that Lestrade ran right into him before stepping back a pace to realize what had caught the man's attention. Without hesitation, he pulled out his revolver. Stepping around a still Holmes, he kicked the door the rest of the way open.

When nothing greeted them in the foyer, Holmes joined him as they listened for any sounds from the rest of the house. Holmes' eyes took in every minute detail. He had no doubts that he had forgotten to lock the door when he had left in such a hurry earlier that afternoon. Now, in the darkened foyer, he also had no doubts Richardson had taken advantage of this fact. Turning to Lestrade, he was about to tell the inspector as much when the slightest sound of movement came from Mrs. Hudson's kitchen.

Lestrade must have heard it also, as his gun swung around to the door in question even as Holmes turned. Before he had a chance to think beyond the fact that he might catch Richardson and end this right here, he had flung the door open, placing himself between Lestrade's gun and the kitchen. Though he was greatly relieved not to be greeted with the sight of Watson's mutilated body, the disappointment of not seeing Richardson was almost enough to have him cursing openly. However, the sound of whimpering drifted to his ears and Lestrade roughly shoved him aside.

"Wait," Holmes hissed.

"What—"

"Toby?" Holmes called.

The whimpering turned into sobs as a boy of ten crawled frantically out from under the kitchen table where he had been hiding. The muffled sobs and choked words were incomprehensible as he flung himself into Holmes' arms. He buried his face in the detective's chest as he babbled something in terror that Holmes could not decipher. Lestrade stood warily over them with his gun still in hand. Not able to get a coherent sentence out of the boy in his present condition, Holmes nodded to Lestrade as the man motioned with his head toward the upstairs. As soon as Lestrade closed the door to the kitchen, Holmes took the boy by the arms and gently shook him.

"Toby! Where is the man who took you?"

For a moment he continued to cry hysterically. Hating himself for being so harsh, Holmes grabbed the boy by the face and forced him to meet his eyes.

"Toby! You were brought here in a hansom?"

Still breathing rapidly, but slowly focusing beyond his fear, the boy shook his head. The near maddening terror behind those hazel eyes. Slowly Holmes released him.

"How did you get here?"

For a moment the boy hiccoughed a few times trying to form words before falling into wailing again as he collapsed in a heap right there in front of Holmes on the floor. He did not have time for this. If there was still a chance to get Richardson, he had to have answers. A moment later the sound of the front door opening had him on his feet placing himself between the boy and the intruder. The sound of a body collapsing in the darkened foyer was quickly followed by the sound of Lestrade's feet on the stairs leading up to the sitting room.

"Don't move!"

By this point Toby was frozen in terror, clinging to Holmes' legs. Without a second thought, he threw the boy back under the table between the chairs silently ordering him to stay there. Hefting his previously abandoned walking stick, he opened the kitchen door just as Lestrade reached the bottom of the stairs. It had taken the inspector less than a second to identify the body lying on the floor.

"Holmes!" Lestrade's shout greeted him.

However, the sound of retreating horse's hooves had him leaping over the inspector and the body as he flew out the door. He was just in time to see the cab picking up speed as flew down Baker Street toward Marylebone. There was no chance of catching Richardson now. He could only pray that his glimpse of Hopkins lying fully clothed on the floor of their foyer meant he was not the victim. Turning back toward the open door, he caught sight of Lestrade turned back just as Lestrade turned up the gaslight. Again Holmes felt something in his chest easing slightly as he caught sight of the bound hands, gag, and blindfold.

"He's taken a beating, but he's alive," Lestrade informed him. "He needs a—"

"Mr. Holmes!"

Holmes turned just in time to see a bruised and filthy Mrs. Hudson making her way across the street. A half dozen or so lads surrounded her as an obvious security detail. Two of them were helping her faltering footsteps. Despite the fact that she was leaning on a couple of the boys for support, the glare she threw at her tenant was full of mixed fury and fear. The sight of the two inspectors currently in her foyer were enough to alert her that more hand happened than the story she had to tell. Lestrade had already freed Hopkins' hands and was gently moving him to the side and out of the way of the door as Holmes took over from the Irregulars. Not even awaiting an explanation, he picked the woman up gently and carried her inside.

"Arthur, take Hannah and Owen with you. Tell Dr. Cummings he is needed here," Holmes barked over his shoulder.

It was a sign of Mrs. Hudson's condition that she did not protest to being carried by her tenant as Holmes carefully stepped into the foyer with the remaining Irregulars following. Lestrade threw him a worried, brief nod as he continued to watch Hopkins and guard the door. Holmes let himself into Mrs. Hudson's rooms as he placed her carefully on her settee. Until this point, she had clung to Holmes, but was still trembling as he looked her over before retrieving an afghan off a nearby chair to cover her.

"It was a cab," Holmes told her, saving her the effort of explaining in her barely conscious state. "Why were you were not taken to a hospital?"

For a moment it almost seemed as if she would not answer. Then she blinked a few times as if trying to refocus her attention. Something behind those dark eyes spoke of anger more than fear at this point, but Holmes did not have to wait long to puzzle it out.

"Toby?"  
In an instant, several pieces came together. "Toby was with you. He took Toby and instructed you not to draw attention. Toby is safe, Mrs. Hudson. He's—"

Movement behind Holmes had him swinging around ready for nearly anything. The sight of the boy in question darting past him and toward Mrs. Hudson caught him off guard only long enough to realize Mrs. Hudson was beckoning the boy with open arms. Toby wasted no time in burying his face and fists in the layers of afghan as he renewed his sobbing. Battered, bruised, but relieved that the boy was safe, Mrs. Hudson wrapped her arms around him gently. Turning blazing dark eyes filled with fury on her tenant, she told him what she thought of this situation. Holmes could not help admiring the woman's strength.

Before he could say anything further, or even begin to question Toby's sobbing apologies, the sound of the others standing guard through the lower level of the house brought his attention back to the foyer. Dr. Cummings had arrived with his three escorts. He was already tending to a still-unconscious Hopkins. Holmes gave his instructions to the Irregulars and dismissed them. None hesitated even a moment in making their way out the door and out of the way.

"He's going to need a hospital," Dr. Cummings announced as he stood to face Holmes. "Inspector Lestrade says there is another."

"Two," Holmes informed him, still somewhat uncertain about Toby's condition other than the fact that he was still conscious.

Lestrade attempted to hand over his gun over to Holmes who waved him off as he showed Dr. Cummings through the rooms to where Mrs. Hudson lay unconscious with Toby curled up on the floor beside her. Though he didn't like the idea of letting Lestrade out of his sight, he would rather the man go armed. By this point, Toby's eyes were open. But he was almost entirely unresponsive. Dr. Cummings paused long enough to ensure he was in no immediate danger before attempting to assess Mrs. Hudson's condition. The woman stirred and groaned in pain, but did not fully wake again. Before he had a chance to speak, Lestrade had returned.

"Constable Evans is calling for a wagon," he announced. "How is she?"

"Alive, but I need to get her to a hospital as well," the doctor answered. "Possible internal injuries. Was it a—"

"He made me listen..."

The tiny whisper from the floor where Holmes was kneeling trying to shift Toby into his arms was enough to effectively silence all else. Toby's eyes were still wide with the horrors in his mind as he relived them. Though the eyes were dry, Holmes gently cradled the boy in his arms with a tenderness that surprised even Lestrade. For all his knowledge of Holmes and his relationship with the Irregulars, the fiercely protective stance he now took as he curled himself around the boy had been unexpected. Holmes gently wrapped his arms around the boy, pressing his little face into his jacket as he rocked him. The look of hatred and barely controlled rage that appeared on his face as he turned to Lestrade made him glad the man had never crossed the line to his knowledge. In this one moment, he could only imagine what Holmes would do had Richardson been present. However, in a few seconds, Holmes had mastered himself once again.

"Watson..."

Lestrade's heart sank. In the chaos of activity between Scotland Yard and here, he'd very nearly forgotten. His concern for Hopkins had all but blinded him. Seeing his fellow inspector lying broken and bleeding on the foyer floor had left him only enough consideration to tell the children hanging around to keep quiet. He still did not know the extent of Hopkins' injuries. But, if the rattle in the man's breathing was any indication, it was serious, indeed. He still needed to send a message to Scotland Yard to call off the search. He still worried about his family. Mrs. Hudson did not look in very good shape.

And he did not doubt for one moment what Holmes would be like should Dr. Watson not reappear soon.

Watson was the only one not accounted for in all of this.

Lestrade did not need to possess even a fraction of Holmes' intellect to know what that meant.

Before he could give voice to what they both knew was the most likely conclusion to today's miserable events, Holmes returned his attention to the boy huddling in the protective circle of his arms. Holmes mentally flailed himself with mental images of Watson's fate as he forced himself to face what he had to do next. He deserved what he felt now for his failure. But what he was about to force Toby to relive made him feel damned.

"Toby," Holmes said in a voice softened with unspoken grief, "I need you to tell me. Was it Dr. Watson?"

Toby's face was still buried in Holmes' jacket as the boy gripped it with white knuckled fists. His entire body began to tremble and then heave with renewed sobs. Dr. Cummings stood by silently, throwing questioning looks at the familiar Yarder. Lestrade's entire focus was on the man on the floor. Despite all he had seen of the detective, nothing could have prepared him for the look of misery that crossed the man's face briefly as he peeled the boy off of him and forced him again to meet his eyes.

"Toby, I need—"

"I didn't want to!" the child wailed, his eyes filled with tears. "He was—was—was g-going—t-to—Amy! Pa! I—"

Holmes shook Toby slightly to bring his attention back. "Your father is looking for you. What happened?" he asked more sternly.

Toby took a moment to process this as his chest heaved. "He said...he'd kill them. I din't wa-want t-to do it!"

"You're not to blame for this, lad," Lestrade said, kneeling down beside them. "No one's going to harm you, or your father, or your sister. But we need to know what happened. We have to stop him before he does hurt someone."

The boy's hazel eyes bored into Lestrade as he continued to pant in an effort to regain his breath. Gently Holmes turned his face back in his direction. "Please, Toby. You're a strong young man. Tell us what happened."

The hiccoughs of breath continued as tears began to fall once more. But this time when he lowered his head, he did not give in to the wailing sobs that they could both sense he was holding back. After a few seconds he whispered just loud enough for Holmes to hear.

"I hurt Mrs. Hudson."

Though this confession obviously disturbed the detective, he gave no indication as he waited patiently for the boy to continue. As if the silence was all the encouragement the boy needed, the next words flooded out of him in a torrent. He still shook and his eyes were wide with a fear and horror both men knew would never entirely go away. They listened intently as Toby told them how he had been instructed to guide Mrs. Hudson to a certain location on Marylebone. He didn't know that the hansom was going to try to kill her. But when Richardson had jumped out as if to check on her, he grabbed the boy instead and reminded him that his father and sister would pay for any disobedience.

Toby had dutifully remained seated quietly while Richardson had taken them to a part of the city he had never been in before. But, even in his terror, he had paid some attention to the route. Holmes filed away this information for later. Then Richardson had blind-folded the boy telling him if he did or said anything that his family would die, and he would have to watch. Instead of being reunited with them, he was taken down to a basement. There he was sat in a corner and had to listen to the screams as Richardson tortured some man to death. At this point Toby's hazel eyes had lost focus and he'd begun to sob hysterically. No longer making any sense to either of the men, Holmes simply held the boy close.

They still did not have the answer they were both fearing when the constable returned with a wagon and driver. They helped move Hopkins and Mrs. Hudson. Dr. Cummings offered to take Toby, but Lestrade felt it appropriate to return Toby to his family first. Holmes had only one plan in mind at this point. After relinquishing the child to Lestrade, Holmes made his way up the stairs to his room. He was no longer thinking beyond reaching the location he was certain Richardson intended for him to find. Though he doubted the man would be anywhere near there, he was going to have his pistol ready for any eventuality. He very nearly walked right into Lestrade before realizing the man was coming up behind him.

"No."

"Is that a professional objection or a personal one, Inspector?" Holmes asked in a chilly voice.

"Both."

Holmes cocked an eyebrow challengingly as he placed the gun in his pocket. Minus the child that had been in his arms only moments ago, Lestrade easily rose to his full height still some inches short of the detective. Even so, Holmes knew all too well the man was easily capable of slowing down his exit, if not preventing it. His face twisted in rage as he faced off with the little inspector. Lestrade didn't give him a chance to speak.

"Is that what you think he wants?"

Holmes' mouth shut with a surprised click of his teeth.

"I need not remind you that if John_ is _dead, someone will have to be around to take care of Emily."

Holmes' scowl then would have sent a lesser man scurrying. He was not entirely disappointed that it did not have the same effect on the man blocking his path now. Lestrade only cocked an eyebrow back at him in a silent challenge to attempt what he knew was passing behind those gray eyes. That was all it had taken. Holmes still felt that rage, and knew what he would do should he ever find himself within close enough proximity to Richardson. But, the Inspector had at least forced him to pause long enough to think instead of react.

"Good," Lestrade said, seeing Holmes' featured return to something more composed. "I had not planned on arresting you for murder. And I would rather not have cuffed you to a pipe. Put the gun away and we'll go."

"Les—"

"Now."

"I will not."

Lestrade glared for another moment. As if coming to a decision, he nodded to himself. Turning, he walked back out the door with Holmes close behind. Without a word they headed down the stairs and to the foyer. He was not entirely surprised to find half of Scotland Yard crammed between the stairs and the sidewalk outside. Lestrade marched right through the group of constables to Inspectors Bradstreet and Gregson just outside the door.

"Inspector Gregson, would you kindly inform Mr. Holmes that he is not leaving these premises until the matter of a respected Scotland Yard inspector being found badly beaten in his home has been cleared up?"

Gregson's light eyebrows disappeared into his blond hairline as Holmes choked on the invectives that came to mind. Before they could pass his lips, however, Lestrade was gone, taking Bradstreet with him. Though the inspector could not even begin to guess as what was now taking place, he was not about to cross Lestrade under these circumstances. If there were questions to be raised later regarding these actions, he would at least say he was following orders. He kept three constables to guard the outside and three to keep an eye on Holmes inside. The fact that Holmes was too furious to even speak told him all he needed to know of the situation.

He was perfectly content to wait it out in silence.

~o~o~o~

Holmes had waited only long enough to prove to the others he was not going anywhere. Informing them he would wait in the sitting room, he headed up the stairs to the landing. Knowing that a constable waited in the sitting room with the door open, Holmes had only to glance over to see the man was occupied with something on the settee. The constable did not even turn to look at his approach as Holmes walked right past the open sitting room door to the secret door that lead to Watson's adjoining home. In seconds he had unlocked the door and released the secret catch. Making all the noise of a cat, he entered the house and closed the door behind him.

In seconds, he was down the stairs and out the back door. He vowed he would pay the inspector back for this insult, if they both survived this.

~o~o~o~

An hour later Lestrade and nearly half the constables on duty that night had located the correct, sagging remains of a once quaint little home. He stood before the body now sprawled out on the blood covered stone floor. With the eyes of a long-experienced, well-trained Scotland Yard inspector, he surveyed the scene and the body from where he was frozen at the bottom of the stairs. The heart of the man beyond that professional mask screamed painfully with grief and loss for the man lying there. He did not need much of an imagination to piece together the events that had taken place in this gruesome place.

Fresh blood pooled on the floor. Old blood stained the walls, floor, and even the exposed boards of the ceiling. The stench of decaying flesh clung to the place like an invisible miasma. The sense of death that filled this little room was nothing compared to the echoes of screams he could hear in his mind at the sight of this place. And the knowledge that the monster he had once called friend had done this to the man now lying on the floor nearly undid him.

It was the sound of several shouting voices that finally brought him out of his stupor. He never doubted Holmes would get away. He had only hoped to prevent the man from doing what he wanted. And, in part, to keep him from being the first to walk in on this. He had known from the minute Toby had poured out his story that Holmes would have beaten them all there even on foot.

Now their question was answered.

Turning away from the sickening scene of gore and agony, Lestrade quickly dashed up the stairs. Holmes had already made it beyond the first two ranks of constables and was quickly flipping a third one over his shoulder.

"That's enough!" Lestrade roared.

Still heaving from the exertion of both the run and his recent combat with the constables, Holmes straightened to his full height as he turned to face Lestrade. Even under these circumstances it still amazed the inspector how swiftly and easily the detective transitioned back into aloof self. But, this inane thought was quickly brushed aside as those hard gray eyes bored into his dark ones asking the question he could not bring himself to ask.

"It's not him."

Lestrade spoke in a voice as calm and professional as ever. But something flickered in those dark eyes that had Holmes scrutinizing him with something akin to concern. Firmly keeping his mask of Scotland Yard Inspector in place, Lestrade turned to Bradstreet as the man entered the nearby front door scowling fiercely at the sight of all the constables surrounding the two.

"Bradstreet, this is your scene. I'm off duty."

"Sir?"

"Good night, gentlemen."

Lestrade brushed past the lot of them without so much as a backward glance. For one moment Holmes was torn between following him and seeing for himself. Shoving his way past the others, he stepped down into the basement. Those keen eyes catalogued every inch of the space before fleeing back up the stairs and out the door. He knew his destination now.

He almost wished he could erase the image from his mind of the words WEDNESDAY'S CHILD carved into the exposed flesh on the chest of Lestrade's son-in-law.


	11. Thursday's Child Part I

_**A/N: **Okay, so I've busted 100k on this thing and it is still going! But, I'm still piecing together the chapters and weaving everything into a coherent story after the NaNoWriMo writing frenzy. So, this will likely be slow going. If I'm lucky, and RL doesn't take me away from here too long. I should be able to continue putting out a chapter a week. Yes, they are longer, and I'm trying to be accurate with details. _

_Of course, any feedback is welcome. Thank you again for all your patience. _

* * *

**Thursday's Child**

**Part One**

Holmes managed to catch up to the inspector only a few blocks away. The man was quickly heading back toward a main street where he was more likely to find a cab. Lestrade hesitated when he realized he was being followed, but said nothing as he hailed the first unoccupied cab he found. Holmes paused long enough to verify for himself that it wasn't Richardson before following the inspector into the cab. Neither said a word as they headed back toward Lestrade's neighborhood. Though Holmes was glad it had not been Watson in that basement, the less rational part of his mind was still greatly disturbed that Lestrade had had to find his own son-in-law, instead.

He knew the inspector would not appreciate the empty condolences. And both of them knew they would be empty, as Holmes was unspeakably grateful it had not been Watson's body in that basement. Given Lestrade's friendship of recent years with the doctor, it was very likely he felt similar. But the loss of his son-in-law in such a gruesome fashion would devastate his daughter. That secondhand suffering alone would torment the inspector whose focus for most of his life had been split between his family and his profession.

Such platitudes were not within the detective's normal behavior. Yet, he found himself wishing to say something anyway. As he continued to watch the inspector, the man in question continued to stare out into the darkness at the swiftly passing sidewalks. He had only acknowledged Holmes' presence with a single, brief nod before making his desire for privacy with his thoughts known. Meanwhile, the greater portion of his thoughts was centered around the question of where his friend and partner could possibly be now. He had not been seen since early in the morning and Richardson had moved swiftly through his plans. No mention had been made of Watson beyond the fact that he was still missing.

Watson could still be Richardson's next target.

Holmes had yet to determine how the man was selecting his targets beyond the fact that they were close to the men on which he desired revenge. He knew all too well, it would seem, how to wound them where it mattered. Holmes could not help wondering how long the man would draw this out. What clues he had been given today had been entirely deliberate. He was playing a game; most especially with Holmes. He could not help cursing himself silently for not having paid more attention. But, for now, he knew he likely would not be able to focus until he knew what had become of Watson. Until then, all his attention would be drawn in that direction.

A part of his rational brain still cursed him for ever having allowed the ties of friendship to interfere. While, at the same time, the greater part of his consciousness knew he would not have survived without his dear friend. He vowed to himself that if Watson came to harm for Richardson's revenge, there was nothing in this city that would stop him from having Richardson pay the debt in blood.

As they finally neared Lestrade's neighborhood, the inspector called the cab to a halt. Saying nothing to Holmes, he stepped down and waited. Though Richardson had already claimed his victim for the day, and possibly more, he did not feel it a good idea that the two of them be walking the streets. Even when taking into account the security measures he'd setup around Lestrade's home, he was glad he brought his revolver. At first, Lestrade walked in a cloak of silence, still wrapped in his own miserable thoughts; though none showed on his face or in his demeanor. Holmes, meanwhile, eyed every passing cab as he fingered the pistol in his pocket.

Suddenly Lestrade stopped and turned to face the detective. His face was a closed mask, as Holmes eyed him warily, not entirely certain what reaction he would receive at this time.

"I am assuming at that there is a reason you have followed me," Lestrade started with warning in his tone. "If it is urgent, I would like to address it before I get home."

To his surprise, Holmes accepted this. His expression, though a nearly unreadable mask to most, bore empathy that he had not expected. This was not the typical frustration the detective would share when faced with a failure. This appeared to be something closer and more personal. However, he quickly brushed it aside to confront the inspector as requested.

"You knew Richardson, but you did not know the killer," Holmes started, somewhat hesitantly. "Have you any theories on how he is choosing his victims beyond the obvious?"

"You wish to prevent more by predicting his movements?" Lestrade nearly laughed.

The bitterness in the Yarder's tone was not missed. "Of course, I do," Holmes snapped. "If we can—"

"There is no 'we'," Lestrade cut him off coldly. "This is not my investigation. Not anymore."

Holmes was taken aback by this revelation. However, it had taken him all of a second to realize the answer to his unspoken question. "Superintendent Patterson."

"Yes."

For a moment Holmes turned this over in his mind. He had never gotten along with this particular figure of authority. He did not like the idea of having to work with or around the man. But, as he eyed Lestrade critically, he could not find it within himself that he demand the inspector take his attention of his own family to defy his superiors. Though, he had no doubts the man would do so without hesitation if it meant protecting them or any of his fellow Yarders.

"Very well, then. As I was saying, there has to be a pattern Richardson is using to choose his victims."

"Gregory was not born on a Wednesday," Lestrade answered before Holmes could continue. "Nor was he 'full of woe'. He was a rather blessed, boy, if anything. A charmed life, if I've ever seen one. And charming enough for Cee and myself to allow him to have married Julia."

Holmes did not need to ask about Lestrade's eldest daughter. She had been a giving child whose volunteer work through churches had led to her illness and death. Lestrade had never quite gotten over her loss, though he concealed the fact admirably. Only those closest to the inspector had ever known he'd had a daughter before Abigail. And, fewer still, knew of his maintained relationship with the man his eldest daughter had married. They were friendly, and met on occasion for a drink. But Gregory had taken another wife a few years ago and also had a family of his own. Both the detective and the inspector had never even considered him a possible target to warn him before it was too late.

He turned all of this over in his mind as he once more considered how it was that Richardson was choosing his victims. It did not seem logical that the man would use such a simple thing as a nursery rhyme to taunt them, and not have some method for chosing his victims. He still held some hope that he could determine where Watson would fall into all of this. Thus far, his only real connection had been with Catherine. However, both of them knew Watson could easily be one victim that would affect both of them deeply.

These and many other factors continued to race through his mind while Lestrade eyed him with ever-decreasing patience. The man was more than ready to return home. Heaving a sigh, Holmes finally nodded. He would need to focus. He would need to go back. He needed to speak with Toby, and Mrs. Hudson, and return to the basement where Gregory had been found. There were too many things he needed to do if he had any hope of finding Watson before it was too late. Richardson's changing times and dates had left Holmes uneasy in the assumptions he would normally make. His deductive abilities nearly failed him completely when pitted against the raging conflict of one very damaged mind possessing at least two incompatible personalities.

Knowing it was time to tell the others surrounding the Lestrades' home it was time to move on, he continued to follow the inspector silently. There was a tension in the air almost the moment they neared Lestrade's block. The night was nearly silent. Even to Holmes the darkness seemed oppressive. Something felt horribly out of place here. Again he fingered the gun in his pocket and was not displeased to see Lestrade's steps continue purposefully as he did the same. Both were on the alert as they rounded the corner and the inspector's house came within view. For a moment, both paused to take in their surroundings and the sight of the quiet, peaceful neighborhood.

Holmes relaxed visibly as they resumed their walk toward the house, as did Lestrade. It had taken them both a few seconds to penetrate the darkness to spot nearly a dozen constables attempting to conceal themselves in various bushes and corners around the block. The unnatural presence they had sensed was nothing more than the silent tension of so many constables on high alert protecting one of their own. As a visual deterrent, they likely would have sufficed. However, Holmes had no doubts that his measures would have likely worked far better in trapping Richardson than scaring him off. He very nearly growled aloud as one constable nodded to them openly when they passed.

Lestrade had briefly reached out to take his arm and pull him along when it appeared the detective would stop to give the poor constable a piece of his mind upon the matter. Knowing Lestrade was likely in no mood, Holmes scowled darkly and remained silent. Lestrade let himself in quietly, hoping not to disturb Cee or Abby and the grandkids. Given the late hour, they would all be in bed. However, he froze just inside the door way tensing as the sound of voices drifted from the sitting room.

Holmes felt his heart stutter for a moment upon recognizing one of the two voices. It was an effort to restrain himself from shoving Lestrade aside to see for himself. He exercised just enough patience to allow Lestrade to lead them down the hall and around the corner into the sitting room.

"Father?"

"Abby? What are you...John! Is Cee alright?"

Watson, appearing thoroughly confused by the mixed expressions of relief and concern between the inspector and the detective knew instantly he had missed something. But, obviously, so had they. Holding up his hand, he silenced both of them. Giving Holmes the opportunity to deduce where he'd been all day, he answered Lestrade's questions first.

"I know you were called away early this morning, Giles. I was already out and had come by to check on Cee. She had fallen this morning and Abby wanted me to look her over. She's quite alright," Watson was quick to assure. "The constables arrived shortly after and I was instructed to wait for you here."

"Instructed?" Holmes asked, having already ascertained the doctor's whereabouts through most of the day that had not yet been mentioned.

Watson nodded grimly, obviously still displeased. "You were missing. They did not want to risk Richardson using me as a means of luring Lestrade," he told them wryly, though the anger at being trapped here instead of out looking for Holmes was quite obvious in his tone.

He did not miss the look of confusion that passed between Lestrade and Holmes. Though Holmes had relaxed considerably, there was much going on beneath the surface in Lestrade's deliberately closed-off features. Obviously Richardson had struck again, despite his lack of target within the Lestrade household.

"Hopkins?" Watson finally asked, almost fearing the answer.

Lestrade's expression softened somewhat as he realized just how much the doctor was unaware of in this situation. Having worked so closely with Holmes made him sharper than most, as did his more personal relationship with Lestrade and his family that they had developed over the years. He was quick to assure him, though, with a shake of his head.

"No, he was...found," Lestrade said, hesitantly.

His shoulders had slumped as he rubbed his eyes wearily. After a moment, he seemed to recover himself. Once again wearing the stoic mask of a Scotland Yard inspector, he turned his attention to his friend.

"If you don't mind, John, I will leave explanations to Holmes."

Watson's frown softened into something more understanding. There was no doubt Richardson had claimed another victim; and likely one that had greatly affected Lestrade. The man rarely donned the demeanor of an inspector within his own home. Here, he was allowed to be the husband and father treasured by his family. It did not take a genius leap of deduction to guess at the cause. Though Watson could not imagine yet who the most recent victim had been, he flickered his eyes toward Abby before receiving a confirming nod from Lestrade. Nodding, as if to himself, he turned to retrieve his belongings.

"I take it we will not be barred from returning to Baker Street?" Watson asked over his shoulder.

"No," Lestrade confirmed.

"We will see ourselves out."

Watson paused as he passed by to lay a comforting hand on the inspector's shoulder and gain his attention. As he had suspected, much lay behind those dark, hard eyes. Above all, Watson could see the guilt. The inspector nodded with a sad frown as he very deliberately turned his attention toward his daughter, standing patiently across the room.

"Good night, gentlemen."

Watson followed Holmes out the door and back out into the night with his bag in one hand and walking stick in the other. The somber feeling of the house he had just exited clung to him as he very deliberately ignored the constables they passed. The fact that Holmes had remained silent throughout the exchange in Lestrade's home had not been lost on the doctor. Nor had the fact that Holmes' steps were slowed as he delved into his own thoughts. To pass the time and curb his rising impatience, Watson took in Holmes' somewhat disheveled appearance and lack of usual accessories as they walked. Only when they had left that area of the neighborhood and approached some of the larger streets did Holmes seemed to return to the present.

"Thank you," Holmes finally said, signaling an end to the silence as well as thanking his companion for the understanding.

"Hopkins?" Watson asked, unable to mask his impatience.

Holmes sighed heavily, though he kept walking. As a cab approached, he noticed Holmes' hand reaching for his pocket bulging obviously with the pistol he very rarely carried. However, after giving the driver a few seconds of close scrutiny, Holmes finally hailed the cab. Stifling his impatience once more, Watson followed. It was quite obvious that the events of the day he had thus far not been privy to had worn out his friend. Holmes seemed as exhausted physically as he was mentally. Therefore, he was somewhat surprised when Holmes began to explain what had occurred during his absence while they were still in the cab. Holmes' voice was distant, but the dread and guilt were plain to one who knew him so well. Watson eyed him closely as they returned to Baker Street.

The detective did not get very far, however, before his words were cut off for a moment. The muttered curses that followed had Watson turning his attention back toward their destination a moment later. Spying the constables milling about outside their door, Holmes called to the driver to stop. The exhaustion of a moment ago disappeared completely from Holmes' features as he launched himself from the cab demanding to speak with Inspector Gregson.

"My apologies, sir," the older constable started, "Inspector Gregson has been reassigned."

"Who is in charge of...this?" Holmes queried angrily, waving his hand toward the door.

Despite the cold gray eyes and scowl on Holmes' face, the constable seemed more amused than intimidated. "Superintendent Patterson, sir," he answered respectfully. "We were instructed to wait for your return."

"Then your duty is fulfilled, Constable. Please inform the others," Holmes said clearly dismissing them.

In truth, Holmes had been somewhat surprised by this. After Lestrade's bit of foolishness, he had expected more opposition. It would appear the superintendent did not have designs in the direction preventing Holmes' investigation. Or, perhaps, he intended to bring his authority to bear on other related matters. Having Lestrade removed from the case had_ not _been a courtesy. He knew as well as anyone within the Yard that Lestrade would not stand by idly when someone threatened a person he considered under his protection.

Holmes scowl only darkened further upon watching this unnamed constable turn away to open the door to their rooms. As three more were called out of the house, he only barely managed not to betray his rising concern that they had discovered his earlier means of escape. Having half of Scotland Yard learn of their secret arrangements to keep Emily concealed in the adjoining house did not not sit well with him. Moments after he closed the door behind the constables, he motioned Watson so silence as he took the two flights of stairs at top speed. Watson followed close behind in concern, not sure what had his friend so worried.

When Holmes paused outside his bedroom door to inspect the lock, he was filled with cold dread. As his thoughts caught up to the detective's, he remained silent knowing those keen eyes would learn more in a few seconds than his own investigation of the door and room would in hours. Not for the first time, he was glad that he had sent Emily away. Obviously the door had not been broken into with force. But, whatever the detective had found had satisfied him. Watson watched as those thin shoulders sagged with combined relief and exhaustion once more.

"They did not enter," Watson stated the obvious, as if to convince himself.

"No," Holmes said, shaking his head. "It would seem Gregson did not feel the need to pursue me after I had escaped."

"Escaped?"

Again Holmes was reminded how little his friend was aware of regarding the day. He chuckled slightly at the possible ideas his statement had given the doctor. Turning back toward the stairs, he allowed Watson to lead them as he began to explain his escape. He had no need to check the concealed door on the landing beside the sitting room door. That was covered well enough to be entirely invisible to anyone not knowing it was there.

He resumed his previously interrupted description of events as they made their way back down to the foyer. When Holmes lead them into the kitchen, he had to pause to explain Mrs. Hudson's absence. This had very nearly had Watson turning around to head back out the door to locate Dr. Cummings. Even assuring the doctor she was safely in a hospital for the night did little to settle the man. However, seeing the exhaustion painted across Holmes' features so visibly left the doctor torn between seeing to Mrs. Hudson and Inspector Hopkins, and ensuring Holmes had food and rest. He knew Holmes was unlikely to allow him to leave alone again anytime soon. What little he had heard, thus far, had disturbed him for a number of reasons. The idea that it was he Holmes had thought was missing most of the day made him feel quite guilty.

For all of this, however, he still wanted to know who it was Richardson _had_ murdered. He had no doubts Richardson had chosen his target carefully for the greatest effect. He also knew he would be needed at Scotland Yard to see to the body. For a number of reasons, he did not feel he should be sitting here safely ensconced within his second home when there was so much else. But, Holmes looked near to collapsing from exhaustion. He needed to keep his attention focused here for now, and not dragging the man back out into the night with him.

The doctor in him rose to the fore as he pushed Holmes into a seat at the kitchen table. Despite the late hour, he could wish the maid was present. Though, he could quite understand after today if she never returned. As he turned to start a pot of tea, his mention of these thoughts had Holmes scowling angrily in disappointment.

"Ms. Nessa is now Mrs. Lassell," Holmes informed him.

Watson's eyebrows shot up, already knowing what this meant for them, and caring little. However, his recollection of the man she had chosen for a husband was not a pleasant one. This would not affect them beyond the need for a new maid to go along with the need for a new governess for Emily. But, quite obviously, Holmes did not approve of her choice of husband any more than Watson. Disappointed though they were, the headstrong girl had taken a liking to the pretty face and had obviously been blinded to the man's true nature. Watson could only hope for the best as he returned his attention to more important matters.

He motioned impatiently for Holmes to continue his tale while he invaded the areas of Mrs. Hudson's kitchen he had previously not dared. Forays into Mrs. Hudson's domain were forbidden, and punishable most harshly in various forms of inedible meals and undrinkable beverages. Though she had been kind to the doctor over the years, there were some trespasses she would not tolerate. And, until now, Holmes had been the only one brave enough to violate that absolute law at risk to himself. More often than not, the detective would escape relatively unscathed. However, Watson did not doubt their forgiving landlady had more to do with that than any reconciliation on Holmes' part.

Nonetheless, he set about preparing a meal out of what he could find that he had learned to cook over the years. As a former army surgeon, he had not had much need of such skills. As a widower, however, he had learned some basics that would keep him from starving without the presence of a woman. Briefly his mind once again flitted to those now warm memories of the days when he had joined Mary in the kitchen more out of a desire to spend some time with his wife than to learn anything useful. Having been a former governess, even her skills had been limited to some simple things she had learned growing up under her mother's tutelage. Some of their experiments and learning in the areas of cooking had been shared. Of course, these were followed shortly by dinner at a local restaurant as they both discovered it was best to stick with only those items that were familiar to them.

Though the meal was simple, Watson was not about to let Holmes leave until he had consumed all of what was placed in front of him. When Holmes had finally come around to the events of the evening, he was again torn between the need to see to another and care for his friend here. Holmes, for his part, relayed the facts in a cool, detached voice. Watson knew better, though, than to question the detective's real feelings upon the matter. He did not doubt for one moment Holmes had thought he had been Richardson's most recent victim. The fact that he had been unable to leave the Lestrades' home had frustrated him. The fact that the constables had not passed this information to Holmes in time to prevent his friend from fearing the worst angered him. He would be having a conversation with a few select individuals at the Yard in the morning.

In the meantime, there was little else to do. Holmes needed rest, and the man would not do so knowing Watson was attending to other duties. That was if he could convince the detective to let him out of his sight. Given Holmes' current state of exhaustion and raging thoughts chasing themselves around that over-active mind of his, the man was likely not to release his sense of guilt or fear any time soon. If anything the guilt of failure would only drive him further. In recent weeks, Holmes had gone from surprisingly healthy—for him—to gaunt and pale. The fact that the man did nothing to hide his exhaustion, concerned Watson more than all the things Holmes was not saying at this point.

After clearing away the remains of their simple meal and brewing more tea, Watson shooed Holmes out of the kitchen. This brought a quirk of the lips in an approximation of a smile at the doctor's display of domestic skills. However, it took little urging for him to retreat to the peace of the sitting room where he could seek the comfort of his pipe. While Holmes was busy doing this, Watson retrieved a powder out of his bag to add to their newest pot of tea. He was relieved to see Holmes curled into his chair beside the empty fireplace deep in thought. Holmes would sip his tea distractedly, likely never noticing the slightly guilty looks as Watson would be watching closely.

Watson was even more pleasantly surprised to realize that Holmes was so deeply occupied with his own thoughts that he failed to notice Watson had bypassed the tea in favor of a brandy. Late into the night, almost early morning, Watson retrieved Holmes' pipe from fingers gone numb. For a moment he took in the man's features. The strain became all the more obvious when Holmes relaxed into sleep. His face contorted briefly with whatever demons chased themselves around his dreams, making guilt stir in Watson's mind briefly. With the mixture he had given Holmes, the man would not wake any time soon; in essence, he would be trapped in those nightmares. Pushing away his guilt firmly, he retrieved a comforter from Holmes' bed and covered him before turning to lie down on the settee.

Tossing and turning, Watson wondered how much longer this would go on before the strain and tension would be too much. Between the detective and the inspector, he had learned much of the case that had brought them together. There were so many more things he knew he would never learn of what had taken place in those early days. What he had seen of Holmes in recent days showed him how far the detective had come in recent years. In his attempts to set a good example for Emily, he had showed signs of health that Watson had never seen before. However, the constant tension, strain, and pushing himself to the breaking point in the hopes of catching Richardson had worn Holmes down to something far too similar to their early days as flatmates. Lestrade had looked older and more exhausted upon arriving home tonight than Watson could ever previously recall.

Wishing there was more that he could do for both of his friends, Watson finally found a comfortable position on the settee wishing he dared take a cup of tea for himself at this point. It was going to be a long night alone with these thoughts. Silently he wished Emily a good night, in her own bed far away from all of this. Offering up a prayer for her continued safety, Watson allowed his thoughts to take him into his plans for the morrow. His last thought was of Lestrade and his family before darkness rose up to claim him.


	12. Thursday's Child Part II

_**A/N: Updated 2/12/13**_

_Again I apologize to all of my readers and followers for the ridiculous delay. If you have read this far and are interested in knowing where this story will go, please add me to the follow list; because I hope to get back to work on this in March of 2013. More importantly, there are new interludes and chapters that will be added that were not originally contained in the body of this work that are relevant to the characters' pasts and will give far more detail. _

_Thank you again for reading this far. For those who have enjoyed it, my dearest hope is to make up for the delay by the growing intricacy of the story and the character details I hope will make this a much more engaging piece. And, for those who have hung in there with me through the journey to becoming a writer once more, I hope to have this published before the end of the year. Your encouragement, even just by favoriting and following has meant more to me than you can imagine. _

* * *

**Thursday's Child**

**Part II **

Watson was pleasantly surprised to wake to the angry mutterings coming from the fireside chair some hours later in full sunlight. He smiled to himself as the detective disentangled himself from the blanket. Upon realizing that the culprit lay on the settee staring back at him, he threw a venemous look at the doctor before glancing at the tea cup still sitting benignly on the table. Knowing he would not win that battle of wills, he sighed heavily and sat back into his chair once more.

"Good morning, Holmes," Watson finally called as he rose stiffly to a sitting position.

Holmes muttering something unpleasant that Watson didn't quite catch. There was no need to state the obvious, that he had been needing the sleep; so Watson let it pass. Stretching out the knots from having slept too long in a less than comfortable position, he turned his attention to the time. He was somewhat surprised to realize it was nearing noon, when his mind caught up to the fact that they had been undisturbed as yet. He had expected a knock on the door to have woken them some hours ago as Scotland Yard would be requesting his assistance once again in this case.

Without a doubt Holmes would be wanting to inspect the murder scene in the light of day, despite the likelihood that the constables and inspectors had probably destroyed most of the crucial evidence. Remembering why it was that Holmes had abandoned the basement with little more than a cursory glance brought his mind back to how they were to go about accomplishing both. He only needed to glance at his fully alert friend to know the man was not going to let him out of his sight today. Turning his thoughts back to plans for the day, he was not disappointed to realize he was feeling very much the same at this point.

Just because Richardson was going after targets around the two, did not mean he would not work his way around to them, eventually. Watson was well aware that the two men could take care of themselves, but he had no intentions of giving Richardson the opportunity to make his friends prove that much. He didn't realize how lost in these dark thoughts he had become until Holmes stepped directly into his line of sight. Concern was written clearly on Holmes' face as he gazed down at the doctor. Gathering his scattered wits, he tried to focus on whatever it was the detective had been saying.

"My apologies, Holmes. I was distracted," Watson told him, stifling a yawn.

Though Holmes' concern dissipated, he could not help a parting shot as he headed toward his bedroom. "Are you quite sure you did not enjoy a cup of tea yourself last night?"

Watson's yawn turned into a chuckle. He knew just how much Holmes appreciated his concern. But the man had never dealt very well with those rare occasions when his flatmate would gain the upper hand for his own welfare. He headed out of the sitting room and up the next flight of stairs to his own room in the adjoining house. Weary as he was, there was too much to do to linger for too long. Though he knew they had both needed the rest, he could not help the feeling that far too much time had already passed since he should have been at the hospital checking on Mrs. Hudson.

He completed his toilette and dressed quickly to find Holmes awaiting his return in the sitting room. Obviously he had gone downstairs to retrieve their morning post. The single sheet of paper and envelope did not come as a surprise. The black expression on Holmes' face as he very deliberately and carefully replaced the paper within its envelope and set it upon his desk told Watson many things that did not bode well. However, before he could ask any questions, Holmes waved him off impatiently. Knowing Holmes would only speak about his latest observations—had there been any—when he was ready, Watson summoned his patience and kept his peace.

THURSDAY'S CHILD HAD FAR TO GO.

Holmes waited just long enough for Watson to gather his things. Neither had to discuss their plans for the early afternoon, as they both knew their first destination. Watson had, nonetheless, grabbed his bag on the way out. Until he knew more of Mrs. Hudson's condition, he was not going to rule out the possibility it would be needed. Without a doubt, Holmes would also be wanting to make other stops along the way. At this point he was as comforted by the detective's silent presence as he was by the weight of the gun in his pocket.

Holmes continued to eye every cab that neared with suspicion until he chose one to take them to the hospital. As had their short walk, the ride was spent in silence. Watson allowed Holmes to continue his train of dark thoughts while he delved into his own. He had no idea what condition Mrs. Hudson would be in beyond the description of injuries Holmes had provided. He did not blame the man for the lack, but was frustrated that he had not been able to attend her himself. Worse was the lingering guilt that she had suffered for one of their cases yet again. And he did not doubt that Holmes felt just as poorly over the situation.

Putting aside his frustration, he focused on the tasks ahead. Holmes would, of course, be working on ways to capture and stop Richardson. Watson just hoped he could keep up with everything else in the meantime. He had no intentions of allowing Mrs. Hudson to return to Baker Street. At this point, no one seemed safe, and anyone could be used against them. He knew he would have quite a time of convincing Mrs. Hudson to spend some time with her sister in the country, no matter what her condition. He could only hope, for now, that she was at least up to travelling. Already his mind was running through arrangements that would have to be made for the two of them while she was away. Likely they would have to fend for themselves, as he was not about to hire another maid in the midst of all of this.

Then there was Hopkins.

Had Mrs. Hudson been in more serious condition than Holmes had outlined, Watson did not doubt Dr. Cummings would have sent word. However, Hopkins was likely under the care of a hospital physician. From what he had gleaned from Holmes, the man was alive but unconscious at the time he was taken to the hospital. The beating had been obvious; but the extent of the damage likely far worse under the clothing. Despite the work he occasionally did for Scotland Yard and his professional relationship with almost every inspector, he really knew very little of Hopkins life outside of his work. He knew the inspector was not married, though he did not know if there was anyone else that would have been notified had the inspector's condition deteriorated through the night.

These thoughts and more chased themselves through Watson's head as the physician part of him took to the fore. Pushing back other concerns, he watched as Holmes bounded from the cab and was well on his way toward the doors. With a bemused shake of his head, he paid the driver before hurrying to catch up with his friend. That Holmes was concerned for both Mrs. Hudson and Inspector Hopkins had not been in question. Even with the grim and aloof appearances the detective kept up, his concern was quite obvious as he strode purposefully through the halls. Before Holmes had a chance to pounce on some poor, unsuspecting nurse, Watson quickly sought out a doctor. In minutes they were lead to the ward where Mrs. Hudson was one of the few present in a long row of empty beds. Watson dismissed the nurse to send word to the doctor on duty for a consultation.

Holmes had abandoned him the moment he set eyes on the battered woman lying peacefully in her bed. Despite the brightness of the sun shining through the open windows of the ward, she appeared to be sleeping soundly. Holmes stood as if torn with indecision. He had approached silently so as not to disturb her, but was very nearly quivering with the desire to question her further. He had almost turned to leave when he felt Watson step up beside him. He watched silently as Watson's green eyes scrutinized her every breath, and took in every visible bruise and abrasion. Obviously he was still waiting for a detailed report from the doctor currently caring for her.

It had taken him only seconds, but the swiftly darkening look on the doctor's face alerted Holmes that her condition was more serious than he had initially suspected. She may have made it back to Baker Street with help, but there had obviously been more he had not been able to see at the time. He watched as Watson knelt down to place his bag on the floor before gently taking her hand in both of his. Almost immediately those soft brown eyes flew open as he soothed her and took her pulse simultaneously. The moment of fear passed quickly from those eyes as they focused on Watson's face nearby.

"Don't try to speak, dear lady," Watson told her softly. "You've had a rough time of things."

Despite his request, she closed her eyes as she swallowed. Watson quickly retrieved a glass of water from the table beside her. Uncertain of her injuries, as yet, he slid an arm beneath her shoulders as he helped her take a few sips before settling her back on the pillow. He murmured soothingly to her trying to convince her not to strain herself. However, the glare those soft brown eyes fixed on her had him sighing in defeat as she lay back down.

"Thank you, Doctor," she said, not ungratefully, "but I will be quite alright once Mr. Holmes tells me what has happened to Toby."

"It's—"

"Dr. Watson!"

Both Watson and Holmes started slightly as the voice carried across the nearly empty ward. In less time than it took Holmes to step back, Watson had risen to his feet and was levelling a glare at the younger doctor that was approaching. The expression on his friend's face told Holmes this was not the first time the younger doctor had made this particular error.

"Dr. Simmons," Watson greeted coldly. "I—"

"I'm so glad you're here!" Dr. Simmons cut him off, lowering the volume only slightly. "Inspector Hopkins is asking for you. He woke less than an hour ago and is demanding to be released. He's..."

His frantic expression had Watson diving for his bag even as the young man turned to lead him back down the row of beds and out of the ward. Holmes heard little beyond some rapid-fire questions from Watson as he followed the younger doctor. Despite his concern for the inspector, he quickly turned his attention back to Mrs. Hudson as she continued to glare at him from the bed. In moments, he had taken Watson's former spot kneeling beside the bed as he took her hand in his. He allowed himself a moment of open concern for the woman who had cared for both himself and the doctor over the years. Seeing this, her eyes softened somewhat as she squeezed his hand reassuringly.

Then the moment had passed. Holmes quickly assured her of Toby's return to his family relatively unharmed. Gently he questioned her on her own experiences of the day before and listened closely to all the details she had specifically remembered, knowing he would question her. He could not help admiring the woman's strength as she fought to recall every detail she thought would help him catch Richardson. It was depressingly little, but he took in every word anyway. Each description was one more addition to the list of grievances he would address with Mr. Richardson personally when they met. The darker side of his nature sincerely hoped he would find the man before the Yard.

~o~o~o~

Watson paused long enough to have a word with an aging Dr. Michaels on his way to the ward where Hopkins was giving the staff a memorable time in a most unpleasant way. He caught the details of Mrs. Hudson's condition and was relieved greatly to hear she was rather sore from her encounter, but had suffered no permanent damage. The cracked ribs would take some time to heal, but she would eventually recover. He was glad to realize Holmes had stayed with her even as the noise coming from the ward further down the hall drew his attention once again to the fact that he was being summoned.

He was quick to dismiss Dr. Simmons as he entered the ward that was empty of all but the one bed. Catching sight of the younger inspector throwing a bowl of something across the room, Watson quickly took in the sight of the one infuriated nurse. Hopkins' blazing eyes and angry expression turned to him as he silently dismissed the fuming nurse. The glare he levelled at the battered inspector had the man's badly swollen and bruised face quickly paling as it filled with embarrassment.

"Doctor, please, I need to see Lestrade," Hopkins started in a rush of words. "They won't listen to me. You still have Scotland Yard authority. They'll listen to you."

Watson raised a hand to silence the inspector as he approached and took the man's free hand and checked his pulse. He continued to frown darkly as he quickly took in the man's condition. Though he had not yet heard the details, he did not doubt the inspector was struggling just to remain upright. The pain was obvious in the fine sheen of sweat and trembling limbs.

"Inspector, from what I understand—"

Apparently the soothing tone combined with those particular words had been the wrong way to start. Though Watson had patched up every inspector at the Yard at least once in his partnership with Holmes, he had never seen Hopkins react quite this violently. In seconds the man's expression had once again transformed into something akin to barely contained rage as he took his hand back.

"You understand _nothing_," Hopkins hissed uncharacteristically. "I am going to Lestrade's, with or without your help."

"Hopkins!" Watson barked roughly, changing tactics. "You are only further aggravating your condition—"

"I—"

Watson waved him to silence with a quick swipe of his hand. "Lestrade would not appreciate you making your injuries worse by—"

"To blazes with my injuries!" Hopkins shot back hotly, his breath coming in painful gasps that had already alerted Watson to cracked, if not broken, ribs.

Seeing the determination blazing in those eyes, Watson stood back for a moment considering. This whole scene was ridiculous. The man needed to be resting. None of the inspectors made for very good patients, even when only semi-conscious and relatively pliant. But Hopkins' current display of obstinacy was entirely out of character. Obviously there was something more going on here, but he failed to see what he could do short of dosing the man back into unconsciousness.

Heaving a sigh, Watson retrieved a nearby chair and planted himself beside the bed. He was not about to back down without a very good reason. Nor was he about to let the younger inspector out of his sight at this point unless he was certain the man would not do himself more harm. Seeing the change in the doctor's demeanor, Hopkins waited until he was settled before starting again. Watson was quick to note his change in stance to something more receptive seemed to have calmed the man considerably. However, he eyed him critically as he catalogued the rather alarming number of injuries he could detect just from his visual inspection.

"I need to see Lestrade," Hopkins repeated, still struggling to remain upright. "Mr. Richardson had Mr. Young. I think I know where."

Now he understood, though he knew there was far more to this than Hopkins was telling him. Watson continued to eye the man in a way that let the inspector know he was not convinced. But, he softened his expression considerably a moment later.

"Giles already knows."

The pain that filled Hopkins' expression then had him leaning forward in concern. He was only just quick enough to catch the inspector as he slumped back onto the bed. A myriad emotions flitted through those eyes, though the expression never changed from a combination of anger and outright pain.

"Damn..." Hopkins muttered, obviously somewhere else completely as Watson ensured he would not tumble right off the side of the bed.

"I will go see Giles. You can—"

Suddenly Hopkins was again struggling to a sitting position. All previous emotions were pushed away as the younger man forced his professional mask into place. The stubborn determination that rose once more to the fore told Watson all he needed to know. Short of drugging the man back to sleep, he was not going to be remaining in that bed for long. Even as the inspector opened his mouth to speak, Watson cut him off with a weary sigh.

"What has Dr. Simmons told you of your injuries?"

Hopkins paused as he took a moment to consider this. "Are you agreeing to take over as my physician?"

"I am, with reservation."

Hopkins nodded as if satisfied. The list he gave Watson of injuries only further confirmed in his mind that the young man had need of a bed somewhere far away from Scotland Yard. Much as he had determined with Mrs. Hudson, the inspector was going to be a long time in recovering. Though things could have been far worse, Richardson had not been gentle in his treatment. He had no doubts this was likely only part of the reason he was so determined to get to Lestrade. When Hopkins was finished, he braced himself for what he knew was coming next.

"You are officially off duty for the time being. You will not be returning to Scotland Yard for—"

"I don't care if I_ ever_ return, so long as I can see Lestrade _now."_

Watson's green eyes narrowed once more. Something here screamed wrongness in his mind. Aside from the inspector's uncharacteristic display of stubbornness, there was an urgency here he could not understand. However, his primary concern as a doctor was not about to be overridden. Much as he disliked to do so, he was not above using even the simple resources he kept in his bag. As he continued to eye Hopkins in a silent battle of wills, he considered another option.

"Are you married?"

Hopkins blinked, the confusion obvious. "No."

"Do you have any family here in London?"

"A sister."

After several more seconds, Watson nodded cautiously. "You will not be able to walk for some time. Your left arm will remain in a sling—" he held up a hand to silent the protest he could see forming, "—_if _you intend to ever be able to use it again. I need not remind you how easily those ribs could puncture a lung. Even if you're willing to risk your own life, would you be willing to risk the lives of the others? You will_ not_ be returning to active duty for several weeks."

By this point Hopkins could sense beyond the doctor's stern demeanor that there was more. He kept his peace, though his fuming expression could have rivaled Holmes' when ill or injured. Watson had to give him credit for determination. There was no doubt the man was in a considerable amount of pain. But, whatever demon was driving him, he seemed willing to sacrifice his career to get to Lestrade. He already knew Hopkins was not about to share that information with him. He just hoped he was making the right decision.

Within minutes he had worn the exhausted man down with an agreement that a local doctor closer to his sister's house would be taking over his care. While he did not doubt the younger inspector would return to duties at the Yard long before he should, he was at least able to ensure the man had some time to rest and recover undisturbed for a time. Finally, Hopkins agreed to a very light dose of morphine to help dull the worst of the pain. Watson saw that his clothes—what was left of them—were returned.

While Hopkins was being helped back into the remains of his filthy, blood-crusted clothing, Watson went in search of Holmes. He was not surprised to find the man still sitting beside Mrs. Hudson's bed, though she was peacefully sleeping once more. The dark look on Holmes pale features still did not sit well, but he had other things on his own mind right now. Tapping Holmes on the shoulder, he silently motioned for him to follow. He did not care for the idea of leaving Mrs. Hudson alone, and he knew that Hopkins likely would not care to have his unofficial mentor as an audience.

Quickly they discussed their plans and parted ways. Holmes agreed to remain at the hospital until Watson returned. Watson would be making a few stops on his way back to the hospital after he had seen to Hopkins. Neither liked the idea of separation; but, under the circumstances, it seemed their only option. He returned to the ward to retrieve Hopkins. Checking another sigh at the man's battered condition, he fought back the doctor inside that screamed warnings in his head as they left the hospital.

~o~o~o~

He was screaming again.

He really did hate that sound. The man was a nuisance. He didn't even have the decency to scream in the shrill cries of delicious agony that inspired him. No, this one would scream in horror and fear. Even the obscenities he screamed were rather unimaginative. It would have been endearing, if it weren't for the constant begging. In between the screams of denial and condemnation, there was always the begging. The whining, the begging, the pleading, the pathetic cries for him to stop.

"You wanted this. You could at least have the decency to thank me for all my hard work," he answered the screams with some amusement.

The screaming stopped then. It always did. It always paused when he spoke. He could already feel it coming. The next wave would be the return of the whining and the pleading for him to stop. He didn't give the man a chance. The screams were back in moments.

He smiled. Then he shrugged and returned his attention back to the task at hand. He had much to do today. The sunlight was glorious. The birds were singing. The air was clear. The scent of fresh leaves blowing in a gentle breeze made him pause to take a deep breath. The simple joys of walking in the daylight was something he had never known before he awakened. And here in the countryside there was so much more even about the daylight hour to enjoy than there ever had been within the confines of a city.

Not for the first time he wondered why he had ever stayed in London. He had enjoyed the quiet of the countryside and small villages in the past. Maybe when he was done he could do so again. Even as he toyed with the idea of the various places he would like to live, a patch of wildflowers caught his eye. In the heat of the afternoon, he decided a break would not go amiss. Pulling off into a little nook, he unharnessed the gelding and tied him to a nearby tree in some shade.

For himself, he retrieved his quickly packed sandwiches and flask. Still breathing deeply of the scent of drying leaves and sunlight tanned grasses, he settled in the little patch of wildflowers that softly scented the air with a sweetness he savored. The scent reminded him of that little girl's beautiful black curls. Oh how he had treasured those precious shrill screams of exquisite agony. They still made his heart flutter.

Sophie. That had been her name. She was Sophie. One of his first children. They were all his children. And each had been just as precious. There was that little boy, Eli with his almost white gold hair. And, then, of course, had been Heather. She had the darkest blue eyes he had ever seen. He had almost gotten lost in those innocent blue eyes, before he had starting cutting off those cute little toes. He could still feel how soft Peter's skin had been beneath all the grime. That soft skin had been a joy to put back together when he was done.

The sunlight played off that smile as his mind wandered back to those wonderful early days. But he had been condemned to darkness then. It wasn't fair. He always wondered what those children would have been like playing here in the fields and flowers with the sun illuminating those miniature features as they squealed and chased each other. He could imagine even now each of them chasing a puppy or tumbling each other over in the grasses as blissfully free of darkness and pain as he had once been so long ago.

But Richardson had always kept him in darkness. As if he were some foul secret not good enough to be brought into the light. He had only been allowed out to roam the streets. And, even then, it had always been dark. He missed the sunshine, the smells, the gentle breezes, and sounds of birds and life. Life was precious and so ridiculously fragile. Richardson was a fool to try to protect it. Better to enjoy it, taste it, touch it, and then destroy it before others had a chance to take it away.

Suddenly the imagined squeals of laughter and children playing were no longer just in his mind. Brushing off the last crumbs of his lunch, he took a long pull from his flask before walking over to place it back in the cab. The sounds of footsteps and voices coming up the quiet country lane were soon followed by the view of four people he had been expecting to meet later in the day. Obviously they were headed out somewhere, so he counted himself fortunate to have come early this day. Knowing he had been spotted, he smiled fondly at the little boy and girl chasing each other along the edges of the road. He nodded briefly to the dark haired woman hanging onto her husband's arm with a bright smile. Stepping up, he introduced himself to the man that he had been intending to meet later that afternoon.

"Paul Atkinson," he offered cheerfully to the red-haired man. "I was told you were in need of an extra hand or two. I was just stopping for a bit of lunch. I hope you don't mind."

The stranger smiled happily, extending his hand. "Not at all. We were just out enjoying the day ourselves. I had not been expecting you until supper. We won't be heading back that way for a while, yet. But feel welcome to join us. You have an eye for picking good resting spots."

"Thank you, sir."

"We don't stand on formality here, Paul. This is my wife, Sally. My boy's name is Phillip. My daughter over there raising a ruckus is Sarah. You can just call me Wiggins."


End file.
